REESE   LIBRARY 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 
Received       WAR  20  1894  ,  189    . 


BAY  LEAVES 


j&m 


BAY    LEAVES 


TRANSLATIONS  FROM  THE  LATIN  POETS 


BY 


.,-,. 


GOLDWIN   SMITH,   D.C.L. 


UKIVSBBI* ■«  ) 


Goldvin-5milh.  Wrfn  go* 

MACMILLAN    AND    CO. 

AND  LONDON 
1894 

All  rights  reserved 


Copyright,  1893, 
By  MACMILLAN  AND  CO. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped  September,  1893.     Reprinted 
January,  x894.  j^  £ 


KortoootJ  $ms3 : 

J.  S.  Cushing  &  Co.  — Berwick  &  Smith. 

Boston,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


PAo 


M; 


PREFACE. 


*HPHE  translator  of  Latin  poetry  has  the  comfort  of 
"*m  knowing  that  he  is  separated  from  his  authors  by 
no  chasm  of  thought  and  sentiment,  such  as  that  which 
separates  the  translator  from  Homer,  or  even  from  ^Eschy- 
lus.  The  men  are  intellectually  almost  his  contempora- 
ries. Gibbon  was  right  in  thinking  that  no  age  would 
have  suited  him  better  than  that  of  the  Antonines,  pro- 
vided he  had  been,  as  he  naturally  took  it  for  granted  that 
he  would,  a  wealthy  gentleman  and  a  philosophic  Pagan, 
not  a  slave  or  a  Christian.  He  and  a  cultivated  Roman 
of  that  day,  or  of  Cicero's  day,  would  have  thoroughly 
understood  each  other.  Their  views  of  life  would  have 
been  pretty  much  the  same,  so  would  their  religion,  so 
would  their  mythology,  for  the  literary  men  of  the  Geor- 
gian era  had  adopted  the  Pagan  Pantheon,  and  Jupiter, 
Mars,  Venus,  and  Diana  were  their  divinities.  Even  the 
conventional  worship  of  the  Roman  Emperor  would  have 
had  something  like  a  counterpart  in  the  conventional 
reverence  for  "  great  George,"  and  the  political  tempera- 


vi  PREFACE. 

ment  of  the  philosophic  Roman  would  have  been  in 
exact  harmony  with  that  of  Hume  and  Gibbon.  Horace 
Walpole  might  have  heartily  enjoyed  a  supper  with  Ho- 
ratius  Flaccus ;  he  might  even  have  supped  well,  though 
he  would  have  politely  passed  the  dormice.  He  and  his 
host  would  have  interchanged  ideas  with  perfect  ease. 
This  affinity  is  largely  due  of  course  to  the  direct  influence 
of  classical  education  on  the  moderns ;  but  it  was  also 
partly  due,  especially  in  the  religious  sphere,  to  a  similarity 
in  circumstances  between  the  two  epochs.  Apart,  there- 
fore, from  mere  difficulties  of  construction  or  allusion,  the 
translator  may  be  sure  that  he  knows  what  his  author 
means.  Lucretius  is  further  removed  from  us  than  the 
poets  of  the  Empire  in  forms  of  thought  and  in  language 
as  well  as  in  date.  But  he  is  brought  wonderfully  near  to 
our  age  by  his  Atomic  and  Epicurean  philosophy  and  by 
the  sentiment  connected  with  it.  Sometimes  the  likeness 
is  startling. 

The  translations  are  free,  and  it  is  hardly  possible  that 
any  but  a  free  translation  can  be  the  semblance  of  an 
equivalent  for  the  poetry  of  the  original.  A  literal  transla- 
tion, as  a  rule,  can  only  be  a  fetter-dance.  The  general 
thought,  the  tone,  and  choice  expressions  are  all  that  a 
translator  can  usually  hope  to  produce. 

It  can  be  hardly  necessary  to  say  anything  about  authors 
so  well  known.  Familiar  to  all  who  would  take  up  any- 
thing classical  are  Lucretius,  the  real  didactic  poet,  who 
used  his  poetry  as  "  honey  on  the  rim  "  of  the  cup  out 


PREFACE,  vii 

of  which  a  generation*,  distracted  with  mad  ambition  and 
civil  war,  was  to  drink  the  medicinal  draught  of  the 
Epicurean  philosophy,  and  be  at  once  beguiled  of  its 
woes  and  set  free  from  the  dark  thraldom  of  supersti- 
tion ;  Catullus  with  his  Byronian  mixture  of  sensibility 
and  depravity;  Tibullus,  famed  in  his  day  like  Shen- 
stone  and  Tickell,  about  their  fair  equivalent,  and  the 
offspring  of  the  same  fashion  of  dallying  with  verse ; 
Propertius,  whose  crabbed  style  and  sad  addiction  to 
frigid  mythology  are  sometimes  relieved  by  passages  of 
wonderful  tenderness  and  beauty ;  Ovid,  whose  marvellous 
facility,  vivacity,  and  —  to  use  the  word  in  its  eighteenth 
century  sense  —  wit,  too  often  misemployed,  appear  in  all 
his  works,  and  who,  though  he  had  no  more  feeling  than 
Pope,  shows  in  the  epistle  of  Dido  to  ^Sneas  that  he 
could,  like  the  writer  of  Elo'isa  to  Abelard,  get  up  a  fine 
tempest  of  literary  passion ;  Horace,  whom,  for  some 
occult  reason,  one  loves  the  better  the  older  one  grows ; 
Seneca,  seeking  under  the  Neronian  Reign  of  Terror  to 
make  for  himself  an  asylum  of  stoicism  and  suicide ; 
Lucan,  through  whose  early  death,  which  left  his  work 
crude  as  well  as  incomplete,  we  have  perhaps  missed  a 
great  political  epic,  and  who,  in  his  best  passages,  rivals 
the  writer  of  Absalom  and  Achitophel;  Martial,  the 
creator  of  the  epigram,  the  mirror  of  the  social  habits  of 
Imperial  Rome,  amidst  whose  heaps  of  rubbish  and  ordure 
are  some  better  things  and  some  pleasant  pictures  of 
Roman  character  and  life ;  and  the  marvellous  resurrec- 


viii  PREFACE, 

tion  of  Roman  poetry  in  Claudian.  A  translator  can 
only  hope  that  he  has  not  done  great  wrong  to  their 
shades. 

Both  Virgil  and  Juvenal  are  read  in  well-known  trans- 
lations; nor  are  passages  so  easily  detached  from  the 
narrative  of  Virgil  as  from  the  philosophy  of  Lucretius. 


CONTENTS. 


LUCRETIUS. 
De  Rerum  Nat.  „4„„ 

PAGE 

I.  11.  1-40.  Opening  Invocation  to  Venus 1 

I.  H.62-101.  A  Defence  of  Free-thinking 2 

II.  11.  1-61.  The  Consolations  of  Science 4 

III.  11.  1-30.  The  Light  of  the  Ancient  World     ....  6 

III.  11.  895-1094.  Against  the  Fear  of  Death 8 

CATULLUS. 

Carm.  III.     On  the  Death  of  a  Favourite  Sparrow    ...  14 

IV.    The  Old  Ship 15 

V.     Love  and  Death 16 

XXXI.     Once  more  at  Home 16 

LXX.    Woman's  Inconstancy      ........  17 

TIBULLUS. 

Eleg.  I.   i.     Farewell  to  Ambition 18 

ix 


x  CONTENTS. 

PROPERTIUS. 

PAGE 

Eleg.  I.  ii.     Beauty  Unadorned 21 

V.  xi.     Epitaph  on  a  Wife 22 

OVID. 

Amor.  I.  ii.     The  Triumph  of  Love 27 

I.  vi.     To  the  Porter  of  his  Mistress's  House     .     .  29 

II.  vi.     On  the  Death  of  a  Parrot 32 

III.  ix.     An  Elegy  on  the  Death  of  Tibullus    ...  34 

Heroid.  VII.     Dido  to  ^Eneas 37 

HORACE. 

Od.  I.           v.    To  Pyrrha 44 

I.         xi.     Ignorance  of  the  Future  is  Bliss    ....  45 

I.      xxiii.     To  a  Coy  Girl 45 

I.      xxxi.    The  Poet's  Prayer 46 

I.  xxxviii.     Simplicity 47 

II.         vii.     Welcome  to  a  Long  Absent  Friend    ...  47 

II.          ix.     To  a  Friend  who  had  Lost  his  Love  ...  49 
II.         xv.     Against  the  Selfish  Luxury  of  a  Degenerate 

Age 50 

II.        xvi.     Peace  and  Quiet 51 

III.           v.     The  Patriot  Martyr 53 

III.          vii.     To  a  Girl  whose  Lover  was  Absent  at  Sea  .  55 

III.          ix.     The  Reconciliation  of  Lovers 57 


CONTENTS.  xi 

PAGE 

Od.  III.    xiii.    The  Spring  of  Bandusia 58 

III.    xxi.     To  a  Cask  of  Wine 59 

III.  xxix.     The  Poet's  Invitation  to  the  Statesman  .     .  60 

Epod.  II.     A  Rich  Usurer's  Dream  of  Rural  Happiness  63 

SENECA. 

Thyestes.    11.  344-403.    The  Stoic  Idea  of  Perfection  .     .  66 

LUCAN. 
Phars. 

I.  11.  1 19-182.  The  Characters  of  Pompey  and  Caesar  .  68 
IX.  11.  189-213.  Cato  on  the  Death  of  Pompey  ...  71 
IX.  11.  543-585.     Cato  at  the  Temple  of  Ammon    ...  72 

MARTIAL. 

Epigram. 

I.        xiii.     On  the  Death  of  Arria  and  Petus  ....  74 

I.         xv.     The  Fleeting  Joys  of  Life 74 

I.    xxxix.     The  Perfect  Friend 75 

I.    lxxxix.  .  On  the  Death  of  a  Young  and  Favourite 

Slave 76 

I.      xciii.     On  Two  Old  Roman  Officers  Buried  Side 

by  Side 76 

II.  xi.     The  Diner-out  Disappointed 77 

II.     lxviii.     A  Revolt 77 


xii  CONTENTS. 

Epigram. 

PAGE 

III.        xxi.     On  a  Slave  who  had  been  Branded  by  his 

Master 78 

III.  xxxv.,  xli.     On  Two  Works  of  Art 78 

III.  lviii.     Roman  Life  in  the  Country 79 

IV.  viii.     The  Occupation  of  a  Roman  Day  ....  81 
IV.        xiii.     On  a  Friend's  Wedding 82 

V.         xx.    The  True  Business  of  Life 82 

V.       xlii.     An  Exhortation  to  Liberality 83 

VIII.      xviii.     Literary  Chivalry 84 

VIII.       lxix.     The  Reverse  of  the  Last 84 

X.      xxiv.     On  His  Own  Birthday 85 

X.      xlvii.     A  Roman  Gentleman's  Idea  of  Happiness  .  85 
X.            1.     On  the  Untimely  Death  of  a  Famous  Char- 
ioteer   86 

XII.     xxxiv.     Vicissitudes  of  Friendship 87 

CLAUDIAN. 

In  Rufin.     I.  11.  1-2 1.     Providence  Vindicated   ....  88 


LUCRETIUS. 

De  Rerum  Nat.,  I.  1-40. 


ALneadum  genetrix ;  hominum  divomque  voluntas - 


OPENING  INVOCATION  TO  VENUS. 

GODDESS  from  whom  descends  the  race  of  Rome, 
Venus,  of  heaven  and  earth  supreme  delight, 
Hail  thou  that  all  beneath  the  starry  dome  — 

Lands  rich  with  grain  and  seas  with  navies  white  — 
Blessest  and  cherishest !     Where  thou  dost  come 

Enamelled  earth  decks  her  with  posies  bright 
To  meet  thy  advent ;  clouds  and  tempests  flee 
And  joyous  light  smiles  over  land  and  sea. 

Often  as  comes  again  the  vernal  hour 
And  balmy  gales  of  spring  begin  to  blow, 

Birds  of  the  air  first  feel  thy  sovereign  power 
And,  stirred  at  heart,  its  genial  influence  show. 

Next  the  wild  herds  the  grassy  champaign  scour 
Drawn  by  thy  charm  and  stem  the  river's  flow. 

In  mountain,  wood,  field,  sea,  all  things  by  grace 

Of  Venus  love,  and  love  preserves  their  race. 


2  BAY  LEA  VES. 

Mother  of  life  and  beauty  that  dost  bring 
All  things  in  order  forth,  thy  aid  I  claim 

When  to  our  Memmius  I  essay  to  sing 
Of  nature  and  the  universal  frame  — 

Memmius  whom  thy  own  hand  has  crowned  the  king 
Of  all  that  charms  or  wins  the  meed  of  fame. 

Grace  thou  my  verse  and  while  I  sing  bid  cease 

Fell  war,  and  let  the  weary  earth  have  peace. 

This  thou  alone  canst  do,  since  thou  alone 

Mars,  battle's  master,  by  thy  spells  canst  bind ; 

Oft  does  the  God  of  War  love's  cravings  own 
Unquenchable,  and  on  thy  lap  reclined, 

His  shapely  neck  back  in  his  rapture  thrown, 

His  soul  to  thine  through  looks  of  passion  joined, 

Feed  on  thy  beauty.     Cflasp  him  to  thy  breast, 

Fill  him  with  thy  sweet  self,  and  give  us  rest. 


De  Rerum  Nat.,  I.  62-101. 

Humana  ante  oculos  foede  cum  vitajaceret — 
A  DEFENCE  OF  FREE-THINKING. 

PROSTRATE  lay  human  life  beneath  the  spell 
Of  dark  Religion  lowering  from  the  skies ; 
Nor  was  one  found  to  break  that  thraldom  fell 

Until  a  man  of  Greece  dared  lift  his  eyes, 
One  whom  no  vengeful  thunderbolts  could  quell 
Nor  wrath  of  gods.     But  on  his  high  emprize, 


LUCRETIUS.  3 

Chafed  to  sublimer  daring  and  intent, 

To  burst  through  Nature's  portals  forth  he  went. 

Thus  his  undaunted  spirit  for  mankind 

O'er  Superstition's  power  the  victory  won ; 

Past  the  world's  flaming  walls  his  venturous  mind 
Through  the  unmeasured  universe  pressed  on ; 

Thence  brought  us  word  how  Being  is  defined 
By  bounds  fast  set  which  nothing  may  o'er-run. 

So  trampled  under  foot  Religion  lies 

While  Science  soars  victorious  to  the  skies. 

Nor  deem  it  sin  by  Reason  to  be  freed, 
Or  think  I  lead  thee  an  unholy  way ; 

Rather  to  many  a  dark  and  bloody  deed 
Religion  hurries  those  who  own  her  sway. 

Was  not  Iphigenia  doomed  to  bleed 

By  the  Greek  chiefs,  though  first  of  men  were 
they, 

Staining  the  altar  of  the  Trivian  Maid 

At  Aulis  where  the  fleet  by  winds  was  stayed  ? 

Lo  !  on  her  tresses  fair  for  bridal  tire 
The  sacrificial  fillet  they  have  bound ; 

Beside  the  altar  weeping  stands  her  sire : 
In  all  the  crowd  no  tearless  eye  is  found. 

The  priests  make  ready  for  their  office  dire, 

Yet  pitying  hide  the  knife.     When  gazing  round 

The  Maiden  sees  her  doom,  her  spirit  dies, 

Her  limbs  sink  down,  speechless  on  earth  she  lies. 


VP.K 


BA  Y  LEA  VES. 

The  firstborn  of  his  children  she  in  vain 

Had  brought  the  name  of  father  to  the  king. 

In  arms  upborne  she  goes,  not  by  a  train 
Of  youths  that  the  loud  hymeneal  sing 

Around  a  happy  bride  in  joyous  strain 
Bearing  her  home,  but  a  sad  offering, 

There  to  be  slain  by  him  who  gave  her  birth. 

Such  evil  hath  Religion  wrought  on  earth. 


De  Rerum  Nat.,  II.  1-61. 

Suave,  mari  magno  turbantibus  cequora  ventis  — 
THE  CONSOLATIONS   OF   SCIENCE. 

TIS  sweet,  when  tempests  lash  the  tossing  main, 
Another's  perils  from  the  shore  to  see ; 
Not  that  we  draw  delight  from  others'  pain, 

But  in  their  ills  feel  our  security : 
'Tis  sweet  to  view  ranged  on  the  battle  plain 

The  warring  hosts,  ourselves  from  danger  free  : 
But  sweeter  still  to  stand  upon  the  tower 
Reared  in  serener  air  by  wisdom's  power ; 

Thence  to  look  down  upon  the  wandering  ways 
Of  men  that  blindly  seek  to  live  aright, 

See  them  waste  sleepless  nights  and  weary  days, 
Sweat  in  ambition's  press,  that  to  the  height 

Of  power  and  glory  they  themselves  may  raise. 
O  minds  misguided  and  devoid  of  light, 


LUCRETIUS.  5 

In  what  a  coil,  how  darkling  do  ye  spend 
This  lease  of  being  that  so  soon  must  end  ! 

Fools  !   What  doth  nature  crave  ?   A  painless  frame, 
Therewith  a  spirit  void  of  care  or  fear. 

Calm  ease  and  true  delight  are  but  the  same. 
What,  if  for  thee  no  golden  statues  rear 

The  torch  to  light  the  midnight  feast,  nor  flame 
The    long-drawn    palace    courts    with    glittering 
gear, 

Nor  roofs  of  fretted  gold  with  music  ring, 

Yet  hast  thou  all  things  that  true  pleasure  bring  — 

Pleasure  like  theirs  that  'neath  the  spreading  tree 
Beside  the  brook,  on  the  soft  greensward  lie, 

In  kindly  circle  feasting  cheerfully 

On  simple  dainties,  while  the  sunny  sky 

Smiles  on  their  sport  and  flowrets  deck  the  lea, 
Bright  summer  over  all.     Will  fevers  fly 

The  limbs  that  toss  on  purple  and  brocade 

Sooner  than  those  on  poor  men's  pallets  laid  ? 

And  as  to  chase  the  body's  ills  away 

Wealth,  birth,  and  kingly  majesty  are  vain, 

So  is  it  with  the  mind's  disease  :  array 

Thy  mail-clad  legions  on  the  swarming  plain, 

Bid  them  deploy,  wheel,  charge  in  mimic  fray, 
As  though  one  soul  moved  all  the  mighty  train, 

With  war's  full  pomp  and  circumstance  :  will  all 

Set  free  the  mind  to  dreadful  thoughts  a  thrall  ? 


BA  Y  LEA  VES. 

Crowd  ocean  with  thy  fleets,  a  thousand  sail ; 

Will  thy  armada  banish  from  the  breast 
The  fear  of  death  ?     If  then  of  no  avail 

Are  all  these  baubles,  if  the  soul's  unrest 
Yields  not  to  bristling  spear  or  clashing  mail, 

If  haunting  care  climbs,  an  unbidden  guest, 
To  power's  most  awful  seat,  and  mocks  his  gown 
Of  gorgeous  purple  and  his  radiant  crown, 

Delay  no  longer  reason's  aid  to  try, 

Since  reason's  aid  alone  can  mend  our  plight 

That  walk  in  darkness,  and,  like  babes  that  cry 
With  silly  terror  in  the  lonesome  night 

At  their  own  fancy's  bugbears,  ofttimes  fly, 

Mere  grown-up  children,  bugbears  of  the  light. 

These  shadows  not  the  glittering  shafts  of  day 

Must  chase,  but  Science  with  more  sovran  ray. 


De  Rerum  Nat.,  III.  1-30. 

E  Unebris  tantis  tarn  clarum  extollere  lumen  — 

THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  ANCIENT  WORLD. 

To  Epicurus. 

OTHOU  that  in  such  darkness  such  a  light 
Didst  kindle,  to  man's  ways  a  beacon  fire  ! 
Glory  of  Grecian  land  !     To  tread  aright 

Where  thou  hast  trod,  this  is  my  heart's  desire. 


LUCRETIUS.  7 

To  love,  not  rival,  is  my  utmost  flight ; 

To  rival  thee  what  mortal  can  aspire  ? 
Can  swallows  match  with  swans,  or  the  weak  feet 
Of  kids  vie  in  the  race  with  coursers  fleet  ? 

Father,  discoverer,  guide,  we  owe  to  Thee 

The  golden  precepts  that  shall  ne'er  grow  old ; 

As  bees  sip  honey  on  the  flowery  lea, 

Knowledge  we  sip  of  all  the  world  doth  hold. 

Thy  voice  is  heard  :  at  once  the  shadows  flee, 
The  portals  of  the  universe  unfold, 

And  ranging  through  the  void  thy  followers'  eye 

Sees  Nature  at  her  work  in  earth  and  sky. 

Of  Deity  the  secrets  straight  appear ; 

The  gods  within  their  calm  abode  are  seen ; 
Abodes  which  rains  ne'er  drench,  which  tempests  drear 

Ne'er  beat,  nor  chills  the  freezing  winter  keen. 
But  over-canopied  with  ether  clear 

They  ever  smile  with  glorious  light  serene ; 
While  Nature's  self  doth  every  want  supply, 
Nor  pain,  nor  care  those  mansions  come  anigh : 

But  Hell  and  all  its  terrors  vanish  quite. 

Though  nought  is  left  behind  our  feet  to  hide 
The  abyss  from  view,  Hell  nowhere  meets  the  sight : 

Into  my  bosom  flows  the  mingled  tide 
Of  shuddering  awe  and  of  divine  delight 

To  see  thy  genius  which  all  truth  descried 
Thus  Nature's  inmost  mysteries  unseal 
And  all  her  ways  in  Heaven  and  Earth  reveal. 


8  BAY  LEA  VES. 

De  Rerum  Nat.,  III.  894-1094. 

yam,  jam  non  domus  accipiet  te  laeta  — 
AGAINST  THE  FEAR  OF  DEATH. 

"  r  I  ^HY  home  no  more  will  welcome  thee,  nor  wife 

JL       And  loving  children  run  thy  kiss  to  share, 
And  make  thy  heart  o'erflow  with  joy.     Now  life 

And  life's  delights  are  gone  without  repair : 
One  day  has  reft  all  that  with  bliss  was  rife, 

And  widowed  all  that  hung  upon  thy  care." 
So  say  they  ever,  but  forget  to  say 
All  cravings  ended  on  that  selfsame  day. 

Were  but  this  truth  upon  their  hearts  impressed, 
Changed  were  their  rede.     "Thy  troubles  all  are 
o'er," 

Then  would  they  say,  "This  day  hath  brought  thee 
rest, 
Thou  sleepest  well  after  thy  travail  sore, 

While  we,  round  thy  pale  corpse  with  heavy  breast 
Gathering,  with  ceaseless  tears  thy  loss  deplore." 

Sweet  after  toil  is  sleep,  then  wherefore  sorrow 

For  him  who  sleeps  and  will  not  wake  to-morrow? 

So,  at  the  festive  board,  as  crowned  with  flowers 
And  cup  in  hand  they  sit,  the  revellers  cry : 

"  Drink,  comrades,  drink ;  a  fleeting  span  is  ours, 
Poor  mortals  that  we  are,  of  jollity ; 


LUCRETIUS.  9 

Nor  comes  it  back.     Then  seize  the  flying  hours." 

Fools  that  they  are  of  a  fond  fantasy  ! 
Can  senseless  clay  for  the  lost  banquet  crave, 
Or  the  lips  miss  the  wine- cup  in  the  grave  ? 

So,  when  the  soul  is  drowned  in  slumber  deep 
We  feel  no  want,  we  reck  not,  hap  what  may, 

We  miss  not  our  own  selves,  nor  care  of  sleep 
The  bond  to  break,  though  it  should  last  for  aye ; 

Albeit  our  spirits  then  their  mansion  keep 
And  consciousness  returns  with  dawn  of  day. 

How  then  if  sleep  for  nothing  taketh  thought 

Shall  death,  that  hath  no  wakening,  care  for  aught  ? 

What  then  if  Nature  find  a  voice  and  say 
To  senseless  mortals  who  their  end  bewail, 

"  If  thou  hast  drunk  of  joyaunce  in  thy  day 
Nor  let  thy  goods,  as  through  a  leaky  pail 

Water  runs  off,  slip  unimproved  away, 
Weakling,  give  over  thy  unmanly  wail : 

Rise  from  the  feast  of  life  a  sated  guest ; 

Thine  hour  has  come,  go,  turn  thee  to  thy  rest ! 

"  But  if  thy  days  have  all  been  spent  in  vain 
And  life  is  now  a  burden,  why  to  waste 

Add  waste  ?    Why  not  have  done  with  toil  and  pain  ? 
Nought  in  my  stores  is  left  for  thee  to  taste. 

Though  sense  and  limb  should  unimpaired  remain, 
Though  the  whole  race  of  men  thou  could'st  outlast, 

Nought  else  have  I  to  give.     Nay,  though  thy  frame 

Could  deathless  be,  still  all  things  are  the  same — " 


10  BA  Y  LEA  VES. 

Would  not  her  plea  be  righteous?     How  much  more, 
Should  one  far  gone  in  years  his  doom  bewail, 

Justly  would  Nature  say  :  "  Dotard,  give  o'er 
Against  the  universal  law  to  rail ; 

Years  thou  hast  had  enow,  blessings  good  store, 
But  thou  hast  let  all  pass  without  avail 

Craving  for  untried  joys,  despising  tried, 

Till  Death  unlooked-for  stands  at  thy  bedside. 

"  Resign,  then,  that  which  suits  not  withered  age 
And  go,  since  go  thou  must,  with  a  good  grace." 

Deserved  were  that  reproach*.     Fool,  dost  thou  rage 
Because  thou  must,  like  thy  forbears,  give  place  ? 

Old  things  make  way  for  new  on  being's  stage ; 
Matter  is  needed  to  recruit  the  race ; 

Nor  sinketh  aught  to  the  dark  realm  beneath, 

Whereof  they  prate ;  but  life  is  born  of  death 

And,  being  born,  must  pass  away  like  thee. 

So  the  long  line  of  generations  wends. 
To  none  hath  Nature  granted  life  in  fee, 

To  each  one  in  his  turn  a  lease  she  lends. 
Think,  too,  of  the  byegone  eternity 

When  thou  wert  not.  That  which  is  past  portends 
What  is  to  come.  Why  should'st  thou  start  or  weep? 
In  sleep  what  pain  ?     What  pain  in  dreamless  sleep  ? 

And  for  those  torments,  whereof  fables  speak, 
On  Earth  they  all  have  being,  not  in  Hell. 

Tityus  here  feeds  the  avenging  vulture's  beak 
Gnawed  by  the  pangs  of  love  or  passion  fell ; 


LUCRETIUS.  11 

And  the  poor  slave  of  superstition  weak 

Is  Tantalus,  though  not,  as  legends  tell, 
The  ever-threatening  rock,  but  empty  dread 
Of  wrathful  gods  hangs  o'er  the  victim's  head. 

Is  not  a  Sisyphus  before  our  eyes 

When,  in  fierce  contest  for  the  consul's  state, 
Ambition  sweats  and  strains  to  grasp  its  prize 

And  still  is  foiled  by  adverse  power  and  hate  ? 
To  climb  unresting  and  yet  never  rise, 

To  strive  for  greatness  yet  be  never  great  — 
What  is  it  but  to  heave  uphill  amain 
The  stone  which  still  rolls  headlong  down  again? 

To  feed  yet  not  to  satisfy  the  soul, 

To  live  yet  never  of  life's  joys  to  taste, 

Though  in  their  course  the  bounteous  seasons  roll 
With  ever-varying  round  of  blessings  graced, 

What  is  it  but,  like  those  sad  Maids,  the  bowl 
To  fill  with  water  that  still  runs  to  waste  ? 

Hell's  fires,  the  Triple  Hound,  the  Furies,  all 

Are  shadows  that  the  slavish  soul  enthrall. 

But  of  the  shadows  earth  the  substance  shows 
In  vengeful  pains  that  the  wrongdoers  feel, 

In  guilt  that  death  or  tortures  undergoes 
By  dungeon  or  by  scourge,  by  fire  or  steel, 

And  when  e'en  these  are  lacking,  by  the  throes 
Of  conscience  agonized  that  nought  can  heal, 

With  forecast  dark  of  sharper  pangs  to  come ; 

A  Hell  on  earth  he  knows  who  meets  such  doom. 


12  BA  Y  LEA  VES. 

Say  to  thyself,  unconscionable  wight, 
Ancus  is  gone,  a  worthier  far  than  thou, 

And  many  a  puissant  lord  from  empire's  height 
Death,  that  reveres  no  sceptre,  hath  brought  low ; 

E'en  him,  that  'gainst  the  elements  would  fight 
And  led  his  armies  o'er  the  Ocean's  flow. 

Scipio,  war's  levin,  that  smote  Carthage  down 

Is  turned  to  clay  as  is  the  lowliest  clown. 

Founders  of  Arts,  the  Heliconian  throng, 
Givers  of  beauty,  sleep  the  common  sleep. 

Not  his  imperial  diadem  of  song 

Could  Homer's  self  from  dissolution  keep. 

Democritus  disdained  life  to  prolong 

When  drowsy  age  began  his  sense  to  steep ; 

E'en  Epicurus,  when  his  course  was  run, 

Departed,  though,  as  stars  before  the  sun, 

Pales  every  lesser  light  before  his  light, 

Quenched  by  that  orb  of  intellect  supreme. 

And  dost  thou  then  presume,  insensate  wight, 
Whose  very  life  is  death,  whose  day  a  gleam, 

'Neath  which  thou  wanderest  stumbling  with  affright 
As  one  that  wanders  in  a  troublous  dream, 

Ailing,  but  what  thou  ailest  knowing  not, 

Thus  to  rebel  against  the  common  lot? 

What  ails  them  could  men  learn,  and  whence  the  weight 
That  presses  on  each  overburdened  breast, 

Their  days  they  would  not  spend,  early  and  late, 
Seeking  relief  through  change  and  know  no  rest. 


LUCRETIUS.  13 

Heartsick  the  lord  from  his  abode  of  state 

Hurries,  then  hurries  back.   With  jennets  pressed 
As  though  to  save  his  burning  house  from  doom, 
Headlong  he  posts  down  to  his  country  home ; 

But  on  the  threshold,  seized  with  weariness, 
Yawns,  and  to  heavy  slumber  lays  him  down, 

Snatching  a  moment  of  forgetfulness  ; 

Or  headlong,  as  he  came,  posts  back  to  town. 

Thus  each  man  flies  but  flying  from  distress 
Escapes  not,  since  the  cause  is  still  unknown. 

Peace  might  be  theirs  were  they  but  taught  to  see 

That  everlasting  calm  their  lot  will  be. 

O  doting  lust  of  life  that  us  constrains 
To  fret  and  fume  when  peril  we  espy ; 

The  end  is  surely  fixed  ;  delay  nought  gains  . 
Except  increase  of  sad  satiety. 

Nor  can  man  take  an  hour,  with  all  his  pains, 
From  Death  who  reigns  throughout  eternity. 

Though  long  thy  term  of  being,  not  the  less 

For  that  will  be  thy  term  of  nothingness. 


WIA 


CATULLUS. 
Carm.  III. 

Lugete,  O  Veneres,  Cupidinesgue  — 

ON  THE  DEATH   OF  HIS   MISTRESS'S   FAVOURITE 
SPARROW. 

LET  mourning  fill  the  realms  of  Love, 
Wail  men  below  and  Powers  above  ! 
The  joy  of  my  beloved  has  fled, 
The  Sparrow  of  her  heart  is  dead, 
The  Sparrow  that  she  used  to  prize 
As  dearly  as  her  own  bright  eyes. 
As  knows  a  girl  her  mother  well, 
So  knew  the  pretty  bird  my  belle, 
And  ever  hopping,  chirping  round, 
Far  from  her  lap  was  never  found. 
Now  wings  it  to  that  gloomy  bourne 
From  which  no  travellers  return. 
Accurs'd  be  thou,  infernal  lair  ! 
Devourer  dark  of  all  things  fair, 
The  rarest  bird  to  thee  is  gone ; 
Take  thou  once  more  my  malison. 
How  swollen  and  red  with  weeping,  see, 
My  fair  one's  eyes,  and  all  through  thee  ! 
14 


CATULLUS,  15 

CARM.  IV. 

jfa  Phasdus  Me,  quern  vide t is,  hospites  — 

A  ONCE   FAVOURITE   BUT   NOW  WORN-OUT  VESSEL 
AT  ITS   LAST  ANCHORAGE. 

THE  barque  thou  seest  lying  here, 
Stranger,  was  once  without  a  peer ; 
Sailing  or  rowing,  she  could  beat 
All  craft  afloat,  however  fleet ; 
This  Adria's  beetling  cliffs  know  well, 
This  sea-girt  Cyclades  can  tell, 
This  oft  have  Rhodes,  trade's  glorious  queen, 
And  Thracia's  rugged  headlands  seen ; 
Thou,  too,  wild  Pontus,  in  whose  wood 
A  tall  tree  once  each  timber  stood 
And  on  Cytorus'  leafy  brow 
Sighed  in  the  wind-swept  forest's  sough. 
City  and  land  of  box-wood  fame, 
Kinship  with  you  this  barque  may  claim ; 
It  grew  upon  your  mountain  side ; 
First  in  your  waves  its  oars  it  plied, 
Then  over  many  a  raging  sea 
It  bore  its  master  gallantly, 
Good  upon  either  tack  to  sail, 
Or  run  before  the  driving  gale ; 
Nor  paid  it  ever  votive  fee 
To  gods  that  save  from  wreck  at  sea. 
Now  its  last  voyage  is  o'er  and  here 


16  BA  Y  LEA  VES. 

It  rests  upon  this  quiet  mere, 

Devoted  to  the  Brethren  Twain 

Who  guide  the  wanderer  o'er  the  main. 

Carm.  V. 

-4~      Vivamus  mea  Lesbia,  atque  amemus, 
LOVE  AND  DEATH. 

WE  will  live,  my  love,  and  play, 
Let  gray  beards  wag  as  wag  they  may ; 
Suns  that  set  repair  their  light, 
Our  brief  day  has  one  long  night. 
Give  me  kisses,  give  a  million, 
Thousands,  thousands  more  —  a  billion, 
Then  let  us  madly  mix  them,  so 
That  we  their  sum  may  never  know, 
Nor  envy  cast  an  evil  eye, 
Because  it  is  so  monstrous  high. 


Carm.  XXXI. 

Peninsulartim,  Slrmio,  insularumque  ocelle  — 
ONCE  MORE  AT  HOME. 

SWEET  spot,  of  all  the  jewels  bright 
That  glitter  on  old  Neptune's  brow, 
Peninsula  or  island  hight, 
The  fairest,  Sirmio,  art  thou. 


CATULLUS.  17 

O  bliss  beyond  belief  once  more 

From  wanderings  long  on  land  and  sea, 

From  far  Bithynia's  unloved  shore, 
Thus  to  return  to  peace  and  thee  ! 

O  hour  of  rapture,  when  the  load, 

Cast  from  the  wayworn  traveller's  breast, 

He  lays  him,  in  the  loved  abode, 
Upon  the  well-known  couch  to  rest ! 

Then  Sirmio,  on  thy  master  smile, 
Who  greets  thee  after  many  a  day ; 

Bright  be  the  face  of  lake  and  isle  ; 
Let  all  things  in  my  home  be  gay  ! 


Carm.  LXX. 

Nulli  se  dicit  mulier  mea  nubere  malle  — 
WOMAN'S  INCONSTANCY. 

MY  lady  swears,  in  all   the  world  she  will  have 
none  but  me, 
None  other  wed,  whoe'er  may  woo,  not  though  great 

Jove  were  he. 
She  swears,  but  what  a  woman   swears  when   lovers 

bend  the  knee 
Write  we  upon  the  shifting  sand  or  on  the  flowing  sea. 


TIBULLUS. 
Eleg.  I.  i. 

Divitias  alius  fulvo  sibi  conger  at  auro  — 

[The  poet,  in  reduced  circumstances;  settles  down  to  a  country 
life  with  his  Delia,  declining  the  invitation  of  his  friend  and  pat- 
ron, M.  Valerius  Messala,  to  accompany  him  into  Greece  and  take 
part  in  the  campaign  which  ended  in  the  Battle  of  Actium.] 

LET  him  pile  up  his  heaps  of  yellow  gold, 
And  o'er  broad  acres  proud  dominion  hold, 
Who  watch  against  near-camping  foes  will  keep 
Through  painful  hours,  while  trumpets  break  his  sleep. 
For  me,  to  ease  with  poverty  I  turn 
Contented,  so  my  hearth  may  brightly  burn. 
To  set  in  season  due  the  tender  vine 
And  the  tall  fruit-trees  deftly  plant,  be  mine. 
Hope  of  the  year  !  thy  promise  keep,  and  still 
With  must  my  vats,  with  grain  my  garners  fill. 
When  without  reverence  passed  I  stock  or  stone 
That  wears  the  holy  wreath  in  field  or  town  ? 
Do  not  I  to  the  farmer's  god  each  Spring 
The  first  fruits  of  my  orchard  duly  bring? 
Ceres,  bright  goddess,  at  thy  temple  gate, 
Shall  hang,  cut  from  my  farm,  the  crown  of  wheat ; 
18 


TIBULLUS.  19 

While  in  my  orchard,  reaping-hook  in  hand, 

To  scare  the  birds  the  farmer's  god  shall  stand. 

Ye,  too,  my  household  gods,  though  wide  no  more 

Is  your  domain,  shall  share  my  humble  store. 

Once  from  my  noble  herd  a  heifer  bled, 

But  now  the  poor  man's  lamb  must  serve  instead. 

This  at  your  shrine  shall  fall,  while  swains  about 

Shall  "A  good  harvest  and  rich  vintage  "  shout. 

And  now  my  poverty  I  almost  love, 

Nor  more  desire  o'er  land  or  sea  to  rove. 

But  'neath  the  greenwood  tree  the  heat  to  shun, 

While  at  my  feet  the  purling  waters  run. 

Yet  sometimes  will  I  take  in  hand  the  hoe, 

Or  goad  the  oxen  when  the  wain  moves  slow ; 

Nor  will  I  shrink  from  bearing  home  the  lamb 

Or  kid  forsaken  of  its  heedless  dam. 

Ye  wolves  and  robbers,  spare  my  little  flock ; 

If  steal  ye  must,  steal  from  the  rich  man's  stock. 

Duly  each  year  I  purify  the  swain 

And  sprinkle  milk,  mild  Pales,  at  thy  fane. 

Accept  then,  gods,  what  my  poor  board  can  spare, 

Clean  is  the  dish,  albeit  of  earthenware. 

All  wares  were  earthen  in  the  olden  day ; 

Man's  richest  plate  was  then  the  primal  clay. 

Not  to  the  well-stored  garners  of  my  sire, 

Not  to  ancestral  acres,  I  aspire ; 

Little  I  crave,  so  I  can  lay  me  down 

To  rest,  not  on  war's  couch,  but  on  my  own. 

How  sweet,  while  to  my  heart  my  partner  dear 

I  press,  the  wind  howling  without  to  hear  ! 


20  BA  Y  LEA  VES. 

How  sweet,  when  wintry  storms  the  champaign  sweep, 

Lulled  by  the  pattering  rain,  to  sink  to  sleep  ! 

Perish  all  gold  and  gems,  rather  than  she 

Should  shed  one  tear  at  taking  leave  of  me. 

Messala,  war  to  wage  on  land  and  wave, 

And  trophies  home  to  bear,  becomes  the  brave. 

My  lot  is  beauty's  chain  to  wear,  and  wait, 

A  menial  slave,  at  cruel  beauty's  gate. 

Let  others  glory  reap ;  Delia,  with  thee 

To  live  inglorious  is  enough  for  me. 

In  my  last  hour  to  see  thy  face  be  mine ; 

O  may  my  dying  hand  be  clasped  in  thine  ! 

When  thou  shalt  see  me  stretched  upon  my  bier 

Thou  wilt  give  many  a  kiss,  shed  many  a  tear. 

Yes,  thou  wilt  weep,  beloved,  when  I  am  gone, 

Thy  heart  is  not  of  steel,  is  not  of  stone. 

Nor,  trust  me,  wilt  thou  from  those  obsequies 

See  youth  or  maiden  come  with  tearless  eyes. 

Yet,  Delia,  in  thy  grief  my  spirit  spare, 

Mar  not  thy  comely  cheeks,  thy  tresses  fair. 

Meantime  we  live,  and  living  let  us  prove, 

Ere  that  fell  Shadow  comes,  the  joys  of  love. 

Dull  age  creeps  on ;  soon  we  no  more  shall  play ; 

Lips  cannot  whisper  love  when  heads  are  gray. 

Now  is  the  time  for  frolicsome  amours, 

The  time  to  beat  the  watch  and  break  the  doors. 

For  such  campaigns  I  am  a  warrior  good  ; 

Who  covets  wealth  may  buy  it  with  his  blood. 

His  be  war's  pomp.     I,  happy  in  my  own, 

On  wealth  and  pinching  want  alike  look  down. 


PROPERTIUS. 
Eleg.  I.  ii. 

Quidjuvat  ornato  procedere,  vita,  capillo  ?  — 
BEAUTY   UNADORNED. 

DEAR  girl,  what  boots  it  thus  to  dress  thy  hair, 
Or  flaunt  in  silken  garment  rich  and  rare, 
To  reek  of  perfume  from  a  foreign  mart, 
And  pass  thyself  for  other  than  thou  art  — 
Thus  Nature's  gift  of  beauty  to  deface 
And  rob  thy  own  fair  form  of  half  its  grace  ? 
Trust  me,  no  skill  can  greater  charms  impart : 
Love  is  a  naked  boy  and  scorns  all  art. 
Bears  not  the  sod  unbidden  blossoms  rare  ? 
The  untrained  ivy,  is  it  not  most  fair? 
Greenest  the  shrub  on  rocks  untended  grows, 
Brightest  the  rill  in  unhewn  channel  flows. 
The  beach  is  with  unpolished  pebbles  gay, 
And  birds  untutored  trill  the  sweetest  lay. 
Not  thus  the  damsels  of  the  golden  age 
Were  wont  the  hearts  of  heroes  to  engage  : 
Their  loveliness  was  to  no  jewels  due, 
But  to  such  tints  as  once  Apelles  drew. 
From  vain  coquettish  arts  they  all  were  free, 
Content  to  charm  with  simple  modesty. 


22  BA  Y  LEA  FES. 

Less  honour  from  my  love  I  need  not  fear, 
She  is  well  dressed  who  to  one  heart  is  dear. 
And  thou  art  numbered  with  Apollo's  choir ; 
On  thee  Calliope  bestows  her  lyre, 
And  then,  whose  gifts  of  converse  are  so  sweet? 
The  gifts  of  Venus  and  Minerva  meet. 
For  these  by  me  adored  will  ever  be, 
Then  bid  a  long  farewell  to  finery. 

Eleg.  V.  xi. 

Desine,  Paulle,  meum  lacrimis  urgere  sepulcrum  — 

["  Cornelia's  Defence,"  as  this  poem  is  called,  is  an  elegy  on  the 
death  of  Cornelia,  a  Roman  matron  of  the  highest  rank,  wife  of 
Paullus  yEniilius  Lepidus,  and  daughter  of  Cornelius  Scipio  and 
Scribonia,  a  lady  of  the  house  of  Libo.  It  is  in  the  form  of  an  ora- 
tion supposed  to  be  delivered  by  Cornelia  in  her  own  defence  to  the 
Judges  of  the  Dead ;  but  the  plan  is  confused,  and  Cornelia  addresses 
those  she  has  left  in  the  world  above  as  much  as  the  judges  in  the 
world  below.  It  has  been  suggested  that  the  elegy  was  intended  to 
be  inscribed  on  her  tomb,  which  was,  as  it  were,  on  the  confines  of 
the  two  worlds.  The  obscure  and  pedantic  style  of  Propertius  makes 
it  difficult  to  read,  much  more  to  translate,  him.  But  this  poem, 
especially  the  latter  part  of  it,  is  hardly  equalled  in  the  writings  of 
the  ancients  as  a  tender  expression  of  conjugal  and  maternal  love. 
The  liberty  has  been  taken  of  slightly  abridging  the  opening,  and 
of  leaving  out  four  lines  containing  flattery  of  Augustus,  which 
seemed  to  mar  the  sentiment,  as  well  as  a  little  of  the  frigid  mytho- 
logy of  which  Propertius  is  too  fond.] 

WEEP  no  more,  Paullus,  where  thy  wife  is  laid : 
At  the  dark  gate  thy  prayer  will  beat  in  vain ; 
Once  let  the  nether  realm  receive  the  shade, 
The  adamantine  bar  turns  not  again. 


PROPERTIUS.  23 

Prayer  may  move  Heaven,  but,  the  sad  river  passed, 
The  grave  relentless  gives  not  back  its  dead : 

Such  sentence  spake  the  funeral  trumpet's  blast, 
As  sank  in  funeral  flames  thy  loved  one's  head. 

No  honours  that  on  Paullus'  consort  wait, 

No  pride  of  ancestry  or  storied  bust, 
Could  save  Cornelia  from  her  cruel  fate  : 

Now  one  small  hand  may  hold  her  grandeur's  dust. 

Shades  of  the  Dead  and  sluggish  fens  that  gloom 
Around  Hell's  murky  shores  my  steps  to  bind, 

Before  my  hour,  but  pure  in  soul,  I  come, 
Then  let  the  Judge  of  all  the  Dead  be  kind. 

Call  the  dread  Court ;  let  silence  reign  in  Hell ; 

Set  for  an  hour  the  damned  from  torture  free, 
And  still  the  Guardian  Hound.     If  aught  I  tell 

But  truth,  fall  Hell's  worst  penalty  on  me. 

Is  honour  to  a  glorious  lineage  due  ? 

What  my  sires  were,  Afric  and  Spain  proclaim. 
Nor  poor  the  blood  I  from  my  mother  drew, 

For  well  may  Libo's  match  with  Scipio's  name. 

And  when,  my  virgin  vesture  laid  aside, 

They  set  the  matron's  wreath  upon  my  head, 

Thine,  Paullus,  I  became,  till  death  thy  bride  : 
"Wedded  to  one  "  shall  on  my  tomb  be  read. 


24  BA  Y  LEA  VES. 

By  Glory's  shrine  I  swear,  great  Scipio's  tomb, 
Where  crownless  Afric  sits  a  captive  maid, 

By  him  that  led  the  Macedonian  home 
In  chains  and  all  his  pride  in  ruin  laid. 

Never  for  me  was  bent  the  censor's  law ; 

Never  by  me  wrong  to  your  honour  done ; 
Your  scutcheon  to  Cornelia  owes  no  flaw, 

To  her  your  roll  of  worthy  names  owes  one. 

Nor  failed  my  virtue ;  faithful  still  I  stood, 
And  stainless  from  the  bridal  to  the  bier. 
.  No  law  I  needed  save  my  noble  blood ; 

The  basely  born  are  innocent  through  fear. 

Judge  strictly  as  ye  will,  within  the  bound 

Of  Death's  wide  realm  not  one,  matron  or  maid, 

Howe'er  renowned  in  story,  will  be  found 
To  shun  communion  with  Cornelia's  shade. 

Not  she,  the  maid  of  purity  unstained, 

At  touch  of  whose  chaste  hand  Cybele  moved, 

When  other  hands  in  vain  the  cable  strained ; 
Not  she,  the  virgin  of  the  gods  beloved, 

For  whom,  when  Vesta's  sacred  fire  was  lost, 
It  from  her  votary's  robe  rekindled  sprang. 

And  thou,  dear  mother,  did  thy  child  e'er  cost 
Thee,  save  by  her  untimely  fate,  a  pang  ? 


PROPERTIUS.  25 

Short  was  my  span,  yet  children  three  I  bore, 
And  in  their  arms  I  drew  my  latest  breath ; 

In  these  I  live  although  my  life  is  o'er ; 
Their  dear  embraces  took  the  sting  from  death. 

Twice  did  my  brother  fill  the  curule  chair, 
There  sat  he  when  I  parted.     Daughter,  thou 

Wast  born  a  censor's  child ;  be  it  thy  care 
Like  me,  by  wedded  troth,  his  rule  to  show. 

Husband  to  thee  our  pledges  I  consign, 

Still  in  my  dust  there  lives  a  mother's  heart ; 

Around  one  neck  henceforth  their  arms  must  twine ; 
Father  and  mother  too  henceforth  thou  art. 

Kiss  for  thyself  and  then  for  her  that's  gone ; 

Thy  loving  breast  the  whole  dear  burden  bears ; 
Oft  as  for  me  thou  weepest,  weep  alone, 

And  ere  thy  children  kiss  thee  dry  thy  tears. 

Be  it  enough  by  night  thy  grief  to  pour, 

By  night  to  commune  with  Cornelia's  shade ; 

If  to  my  likeness  in  thy  secret  bower 

Thou  speakest,  speak  as  though  I  answer  made. 

Should  time  bring  on  another  wedding-day, 
And  set  a  stepdame  in  your  mother's  place, 

My  children,  let  your  looks  no  gloom  betray ; 
Kind  ways  and  loving  words  will  win  her  grace. 


26  BA  Y  LEA  VES. 

Nor  speak  too  much  of  me  ;  the  jealous  ear 
Of  the  new  wife  perchance  offence  may  take. 

But  ah  !  if  my  poor  ashes  are  so  dear 
That  he  will  live  unwedded  for  my  sake, 

Learn,  children,  to  forestall  your  sire's  decline, 
And  let  no  lonesome  thought  come  near  his  life ; 

Add  to  your  years  what  Fate  has  reft  from  mine ; 
Blest  in  my  children  let  him  bless  his  wife. 

Though  brief  my  day,  I  have  not  lived  in  vain ; 

Mourning  for  child  of  mine  I  never  wore  ; 
When  from  my  home  went  forth  my  funeral  train 

Not  one  was  missing  there  of  all  I  bore. 

My  cause  is  pleaded.     Now,  ye  mourners,  rise 
And  witness  bear  till  earth  my  meed  decree ; 

If  worth  may  claim  its  guerdon  in  the  skies, 
My  glorious  ancestors  may  welcome  me. 


OVID. 
Amor.  I.  n. 

Esse  quid  hoc  dlcam  — 

THE  TRIUMPH   OF  LOVE. 

[In  this  picture  of  the  Triumph  of  Love  we  have  a  glimpse  of  the 
Ovid  who  inspired  the  mythological  painters  of  the  Renaissance.] 

WHY  is  this  bed  the  hardest  ever  pressed  ? 
Why  are  these  bed-clothes  tumbled  with  unrest  ? 
Why  have  I  lain  the  livelong  night  awake  ? 
And  why  do  all  my  bones  with  tossing  ache  ? 
What !  can  I  be  in  love,  yet  know  it  not  ? 
Has  the  sly  god  found  some  unguarded  spot  ? 
E'en  so  it  is ;  I  feel  the  subtle  dart ; 
Once  more  the  tyrant  reigns  in  this  poor  heart. 
Wert  best  to  yield,  or  fan  the  flame  by  fight? 
To  yield  were  best :  loads  lightly  borne  are  light. 
Oft  when  we  wave  the  torch  we  fan  the  fire, 
Which,  left  at  rest,  would  presently  expire. 
The  patient  ox,  accustomed  to  the  yoke, 
Is  less  belaboured  than  the  newly-broke ; 
To  young  and  restive  horses  is  applied 
The  biting  curb,  not  to  the  charger  tried. 
27 


28  BA  Y  LEA  VES. 

Contend  with  love,  more  ruthless  he  will  be 
Than  if  you  unresisting  bend  the  knee. 
Cupid,  I  own  thy  power ;  I  quarter  crave, 
Stretch  forth  my  suppliant  hands  and  am  thy  slave. 
Pardon  and  peace  I  beg,  the  war  is  done ; 
From  the  disarmed  no  laurels  can  be  won. 
Crown  thee  with  myrtle,  yoke  thy  mother's  pair 
Of  doves,  a  car  thy  step- father  will  spare, 
There  shalt  thou  stand  while  all  the  people  cheer, 
Handling  the  reins,  a  graceful  charioteer. 
Damsels  and  youths  behind  the  victor's  car 
Shall  march  in  chains,  the  trophies  of  the  war, 
While  I,  thy  latest  prize,  with  wounds  still  green 
And  fetters  newly  forged,  shall  there  be  seen. 
Good  sense  and  modesty  shall  pinioned  move 
With  every  power  that  combats  conquering  Love. 
Thou  shalt  be  lord  of  all.     Around,  the  crowd 
With  hands  uplift  shall  "  Triumph  "  shout  aloud. 
Fond  flatteries,  folly,  madness,  at  thy  side 
Shall  joyous  pace,  thy  henchmen  true  and  tried ; 
These,  these  are  thy  resistless  soldiery, 
Of  these  bereft  a  weakling  thou  wouldst  be. 
Clapping  her  hands  thy  mother  shall  look  on 
From  heaven,  and  shower  down  roses  on  her  son, 
While,  wings  and  locks  bejewelled,  thou  dost  fare, 
A  golden  figure  in  a  golden  car. 
E'en 'then,  if  I  mistake  not,  will  be  felt 
Thy  fiery  shafts,  and  many  a  wound  be  dealt. 
Those  shafts,  e'en  if  thou  £id'st  them,  cannot  rest, 
E'en  as  they  passed  they  would  inflame  each  breast. 


OVID.  29 

O'er  conquered  India  thus  did  Bacchus  move 
Though  him  the  tiger  drew,  thee  draws  the  dove. 
Then,  victor,  waste  no  more  thy  might  on  me, 
When  of  thy  triumph  I  a  part  may  be. 
Look  at  thy  kinsman  Caesar,  mild  as  brave, 
Who,  conquering  ever,  conquers  but  to  save. 


Amor.  I.  vi. 

Janitor  (indignuni)  dura  rellgate  catena  — 

TO  THE   PORTER  OF  HIS    MISTRESS'S   HOUSE. 

[The  porter,  it  will  be  observed,  is  chained  to  his  post,  so  that 
we  have  here  a  picture  of  slave  life  as  well  as  of  Roman  lovers.] 

PORTER,  to  chain  thee  thus  was  shame  and  sin ; 
Turn  that  unfeeling  hinge  and  let  me  in, 
Leave  but  the  door  ajar,  though  it  should  be 
The  merest  chink,  'twere  wide  enough  for  me. 
Love's  service  has  my  substance  so  refined, 
That  laws  of  matter  scarce  my  motions  bind. 
There  was  a  time  when  spectres  could  affright, 
And  when  I  dared  not  go  abroad  at  night ; 
But  Cupid  whispered  in  his  mother's  ear 
(I  heard  him),  "Thou  too  shalt  be  freed  from  fear." 
I  loved.     At  once  my  terrors  all  were  o'er ; 
Nor  ghost  nor  dagger  could  appal  me  more. 
Thee  only  now  I  dread,  cringe  but  to  thee, 
Thou  only  hast  the  thunderbolt  for  me. 


30  BAY  LEAVES. 

See  —  that  thou  may'st  unbolt  this  cruel  door  — 
See  how  my  tears  in  streams  adown  it  pour, 
Think  of  the  day  when  thou  was  standing  stript 
And,  but  I  prayed  thy  mistress,  hadst  been  whipt. 
The  prayer  that  once  availed  to  save  thy  skin 
Shall  it  not  now  avail  to  let  me  in  ? 
Then  my  good  deed  with  a  good  deed  requite, 
Haste  to  unbolt  the  door,  fast  wanes  the  night. 
So  may'st  thou  some  day  from  that  chain  be  free 
And  eat  no  more  the  crust  of  slavery. 
Ah  !  to  a  heart  of  stone  I  plead  in  vain ; 
Fast  is  the  bolt  and  fast  it  will  remain. 
Porter,  beleaguered  cities  need  such  ward, 
But  peace  hath  no  besiegers,  asks  no  guard. 
Worse  than  a  foe  thou  treat'st  an  amorous  wight, 
Then  haste,  unbolt  the  door,  fast  wanes  the  night. 
No  troops,  no  arms  I  bring  to  storm  thy  gate, 
My  mate  is  love,  I  have  no  other  mate. 
From  love  I  no  more,  though  I  willed,  could  part, 
Than  from  my  limbs  I  could  divorce  my  heart. 
Love,  and  one  cup  of  wine,  and  these  poor  flowers 
Fall'n  from  a  reveller's  brow,  are  all  my  powers. 
Whom  would  such  enemies  as  these  affright  ? 
Haste  to  unbolt  the  door,  fast  wanes  the  night. 
Hast  thou  no  sense,  does  sleep  with  its  dull  ear, 
Sleep,  which  love  never  knows,  shut  out  my  prayer  ? 
Yet  past  thy  guard  to  steal  whene'er  I  tried 
The  setting  stars  found  thine  eyes  open  wide. 
Perchance  thy  mistress  rests  in  thy  embrace ; 
Oh,  if  she  does,  would  I  were  in  thy  place  ! 


OVID.  31 

Thy  chain  with  such  a  solace  would  be  light. 
Haste  then,  unbolt  the  door,  fast  wanes  the  night. 
Am  I  deceived,  or  did  the  hinges  creak, 
And  the  door,  turned,  a  welcome  signal  make  ? 
Deceived  I  am ;  'twas  wind  that  shook  the  door, 
And,  blowing,  far  away  my  wishes  bore. 
Come,  Boreas,  for  Orithyia's  sake, 
And  with  thy  blast  this  odious  barrier  break. 
Silent  the  city  lies,  and  in  its  flight, 
Letting  the  chill  dews  fall,  fast  wanes  the  night. 
Haste,  draw  the  bolt,  or  look  for  battery ; 
This  torch  to  your  proud  mansion  I'll  apply. 
Night,  love,  and  wine  no  moderate  thoughts  sug- 
gest, 
These  banish  fear,  that  shame,  from  every  breast. 
My  words  are  spent :  on  thee,  deaf  as  the  post 
Beside  that  door,  all  prayers  and  threats  are  lost ; 
Fitter  in  darksome  dungeon  to  be  laid 
Than  guard  the  portals  of  a  lovely  maid. 
The  dawn  with  frosty  wheels  comes  on  the  while, 
And  chanticleer  calls  wretches  to  their  toil. 
Lie  there,  O  wreath,  from  my  sad  temples  torn, 
Lie  at  this  cruel  gate  till  night  is  morn ; 
Thee,  when  my  love  at  daybreak  shall  behold, 
The  tale  of  hours  thus  wasted  will  be  told. 
Dull  soul  that  shut'st  out  love,  whate'er  thou  art, 
Receive  a  lover's  curse  ere  I  depart ; 
And  ye,  bolts,  bars,  posts  of  this  graceless  door, 
A  long  farewell,  ye '11  see  my  face  no  more. 


32  BA  Y  LEA  FES. 


Amor.  II.  vi. 

Psittacus,  Eois  imitatrix  ales  ab  Indis  — 

ON   THE  DEATH   OF  A  PARROT. 

[The  opening  is,  of  course,  a  play  on  the  ceremonies  of  a  Roman 
funeral.    The  Paradise  of  Birds  is  the  best  part  of  the  piece.] 

DECEASED,  a  Parrot  brought  from  farthest  Ind : 
All  feathered  friends  the  funeral  please  attend. 
In  pious  grief  each  tender  visage  tear 
With  claws  for  hands,  and  rend  your  plumes  for  hair, 
Beat  with  your  wings  your  breasts,  and  let  each  throat 
Wail  like  the  funeral  trumpet's  doleful  note. 
Why,  Philomel,  bewail  that  ancient  wrong  ? 
Thracia's  grim  lord  has  been  thy  theme  too  long. 
One  matchless  bird  claims  every  thought.     The  tale 
Of  Itys  slain  is  passing  sad,  but  stale. 
Hither,  all  tribes  that  sail  the  viewless  air, 
But  thou,  sweet  turtle,  first  of  all  repair. 
In  perfect  harmony  your  lives  were  past, 
Your  faith  stood  firm  and  rooted  to  the  last. 
Orestes,  Pylades,  illustrious  pair, 
Like  you  the  Parrot  and  the  turtle  were. 
Yet  neither  love  so  true  nor  hues  so  brave, 
Nor  such  a  gift  of  speech  had  power  to  save  ; 
Nor  that  my  mistress  loved  the  pretty  prize  : 
Lost  prince  of  birds,  in  death  thy  glory  lies. 


OVID.  33 

Thy  glowing  feathers  mocked  the  emerald's  rays, 
Thy  ruddy  beak  the  Punic  saffron's  blaze. 
No  fowl  could  language  ere  so  counterfeit 
Or  with  such  lisping  grace  the  word  repeat. 
Untimely  snatched  !  from  quarrels  thou  wert  free, 
While  others  fought,  peace  still  was  dear  to  thee. 
Quails  in  their  battles  pass  a  savage  life, 
Yet  reach  old  age,  full  both  of  years  and  strife. 
Spare  was  thy  diet ;  for  thy  favourite  feat, 
Practised  so  oft,  scarce  left  thee  time  to  eat. 
For  food  the  nut,  the  drowsy  poppy's  seed, 
For  drink  the  stream  supplied  thy  simple  need. 
The  felon  kite,  the  greedy  vulture  live, 
The  doleful  daws  foreboding  storms  survive, 
The  raven  still  croaks  on,  Minerva's  hate, 
And  scarce  nine  weary  ages  bound  its  date ; 
But  nature's  marvel  brought  from  other  skies, 
Image  of  human  speech,  the  Parrot  dies. 
A  cruel  power  first  on  the  fairest  preys, 
The  vile  fill  up  the  measure  of  their  days. 
Thersites  lived  Achilles'  death  to  tell, 
Lived  Hector's  brethren  when  the  hero  fell. 
The  seventh  day  came,  the  light  of  thy  last  sun, 
Fate's  empty  distaff  showed  thy  thread  had  run. 
Still  in  death's  grasp  thou  did'st  essay  to  speak 
And  shape  Corinna's  name  with  failing  beak. 
In  the  blest  realm  beneath  a  hill  is  seen 
A  dusky  grove,  with  grass  forever  green ; 
There  —  the  belief  to  piety  is  dear  — 
Dwell  sainted  birds,  while  no  ill  fowl  comes  near. 


34  BAY  LEAVES. 

In  white-plumed  innocence  swans  float  around, 
The  matchless  phoenix  haunts  the  holy  ground ; 
The  peacock  spreads  his  glories,  and  the  dove, 
Billing  her  mate,  renews  her  earthly  love. 
There,  our  lost  Parrot,  welcomed  in  the  bower, 
Draws  feathered  tribes  to  marvel  at  his  power. 
A  narrow  tomb  the  little  bones  will  hold ; 
And  two  brief  lines  the  story  will  unfold  : 
"  I  pleased  the  fair.     So  much  this  stone  doth  tell ; 
What  more  ?     I  talked  and  for  a  bird  talked  well." 


Amor.  III.  ix. 

Memnona  si  mater,  mater  ploravit  Achillen  — 

[An  elegy  on  the  death  of  Ovid's  poet-friend  Tibullus.  Two 
lines  of  frigid  mythology  have  been  left  out.  How  could  a  man  of 
Ovid's  taste  speak  of  Cupid  as  the  brother  of  ^Eneas  and  make 
him  attend  in  that  character  the  pious  Trojan's  funeral?  The  two 
mistresses  with  their  contest  for  priority  of  interest  in  the  dead 
might  have  been  advantageously  omitted;  but  this  is  Roman. 
What  ground  of  complaint  Tibullus  had  against  Gallus  is  a 
mystery.] 

IF  for  Achilles,  if  for  Memnon  dead, 
A  mother's  tears  by  eyes  divine  were  shed, 
Goddess  of  Elegy,  let  fall  thy  hair, 
As  mourners  wont,  and  come,  our  sorrows  share. 
Lo  !  turned  to  senseless  clay  Tibullus  lies, 
And  with  thy  own  sweet  bard  thy  glory  dies. 
See  Love,  with  torch  extinguished,  broken  bow, 
Quiver  inverted,  joins  the  train  of  woe. 


O  VID.  35 

Behold  his  grief,  by  drooping  wings  expressed, 
How,  with  despairing  hand  he  beats  his  breast ; 
How  the  quick  sobs  his  heaving  bosom  tear ; 
How  drop  the  tears  on  his  dishevelled  hair. 
Not  Venus'  self  was  more  distraught  with  pain 
When  by  the  boar  her  beauteous  boy  was  slain. 
They  say  we  bards  are  Heaven's  peculiar  care, 
A  sacred  race,  and  inspiration  share. 
But  Death  for  sacred  things  shows  scant  respect 
And  lays  his  impious  hands  on  Heaven's  elect. 
A  Muse  for  mother,  a  celestial  sire, 
These  saved  not  Orpheus,  nor  his  magic  lyre. 
For  him  in  grief  his  father's  harp  was  strung, 
And  with  his  dirge  the  woodland  echoes  rung. 
Great  Homer,  too,  from  whose  deep  fountain  fed 
The  streams  of  song  o'er  poet  souls  are  shed, 
Sank  to  the  shades  when  came  the  fatal  hour ; 
Verse,  verse  alone,  defies  the  insatiate  Power. 
The  tale  of  Troy  for  ever  will  delight 
And  the  weird  web  unwoven  in  the  night. 
So  will  your  names,  bright  pair,  immortal  prove 
Nemesis  his  last,  Delia  his  earliest  love. 
But  what  avail  your  rites,  your  timbrels  now, 
Or  your  chaste  nights  ?     Has  Isis  heard  your  vow  ? 
When  cruel  fate  thus  bears  the  good  away, 
Forgive  me,  gods,  I  almost  cease  to  pray. 
Be  pious  and  you  die  :  frequent  the  fanes, 
Death  drags  you  from  the  altar  for  your  pains. 
Dost  thou,  a  poet,  trust  in  lines  that  burn  ? 
Lo  !  great  Tibullus  lies  in  yon  small  urn. 


36  BA  Y  LEA  VES. 

And  fire,  O  sacred  Son  of  Song,  could  feast 

On  that  sweet  home  of  poesy,  thy  breast ! 

The  flames  that  such  a  sacrilege  could  dare 

Would  not  the  majesty  of  temples  spare. 

The  Queen  of  Beauty  turned  her  from  the  sight, 

'Tis  said  that  she  let  fall  some  tears  of  light. 

Yet  was  it  better  so  to  end,  than  lie 

In  common  earth  beneath  an  alien  sky. 

At  least  thy  mother  closed  thy  eyes  and  paid 

Affection's  last  sad  offerings  to  the  shade. 

Thy  sister,  too,  in  mourning  took  her  turn, 

And  bent  with  drooping  tresses  o'er  thy  urn; 

Nor  failed  the  two,  once  to  thy  heart  so  dear, 

To  stand  together  by  their  lover's  bier. 

Delia,  as  from  thy  corpse  she  parted,  cried 

O  hadst  thou  still  been  mine,  thou  hadst  not  died. 

Claim  not,  said  Nemesis,  the  loss  as  thine, 

Know  that  his  dying  hand  was  clasped  in  mine. 

If  aught  is  left  but  name  or  empty  shade, 

Tibullus  rests  in  some  Elysian  glade, 

Where,  crowned  with  ivy,  in  their  youthful  bloom 

To  greet  him,  Calvus  and  Catullus  come; 

And  Gallus,  too  (were  friendship's  wrong  undone), 

The  poet-soldier  who  both  laurels  won. 

Together  there  ye  live,  if  life  there  be 

In  yonder  realm,  a  sainted  company. 

Turn,  then,  Tibullus,  to  thy  peaceful  rest, 

And  may  the  earth  lie  light  upon  thy  breast. 


OVID.  37 


Heroid.  VII. 

Sic,  ubi  fata  vacant,  udis  abject  us  in  her  bis  — 

DIDO  TO  AENEAS. 

[Dido  writes  to  iEneas  who  had  deserted  her.  The  reader 
will  remember  that  yEneas,  Dido's  faithless  husband,  being  son  of 
Venus,  was  brother  of  Cupid.] 

THE  stricken  swan  beside  Mseander  lies 
In  the  dank  grass,  sings  her  last  song,  and  dies. 
Think  not  I  hope  to  move  thee  by  my  prayer — 
That  hope,  all  hope,  has  sunk  in  blank  despair, 
No,  but  when  honour,  virtue,  fame  are  gone 
'Twere  a  poor  thrift  to  husband  words  alone. 
And  thou  wilt  go,  and  leave  me  here  forlorn, 
Thy  faith,  thy  sails  by  the  same  breezes  borne, 
At  once  thy  cable  loosed  and  honour's  band, 
To  seek,  thou  know'st  not  where,  the  Italian  land. 
The  hopes  of  Carthage  and  her  rising  towers 
Have  then  no  charm,  though  thine  with  kingly  powers. 
Here  is  a  city,  where  thou  goest  is  none, 
That  land  is  yet  to  win ;  this  land  is  won. 
Suppose  the  haven  gained,  what  friend  will  come 
To  bid  thee  call  the  stranger's  coast  thy  home  ? 
Once  more  thou  must  feign  love,  be  false  once  more, 
And  find  a  Dido  on  the  Italian  shore. 
Where  wilt  thou  see  another  Carthage  rise  ? 
Where  feast,  as  from  this  tower,  a  monarch's  eyes? 


38  BA  Y  LEA  FES. 

Or,  if  thou  dost,  if  Heaven  propitious  prove 

To  every  prayer,  where  wilt  thou  find  —  my  love  ? 

I  burn,  as  kindled  sulphur  wastes  away, 

As  wastes  the  frankincense  on  festal  day ; 

^Eneas'  form  is  ever  in  my  sight ; 

Of  him  I  think  by  day,  I  dream  by  night.    , 

Ingrate  he  is,  untouched  by  all  my  care, 

And  were  I  wise,  to  lose  him  were  my  prayer. 

And  yet  no  hate  in  me  his  guilt  can  move, 

I  curse  his  falsehood  and  more  deeply  love. 

Spare,  Venus,  spare  thy  daughter  !     Cupid,  wind 

Thy  witcheries  round  thy  rebel  brother's  mind  ! 

Alas  !  my  thoughts  on  baseless  fancies  run ; 

Nought  of  that  mother  lingers  in  her  son. 

Of  flinty  rocks  was  born  thy  heart  of  stone, 

Gnarled  oaks,  fierce  beasts  may  claim  thee  for  their  own, 

Or  yon  wild  ocean,  o'er  which  lies  thy  way  — 

See  !  how  with  rising  waves  it  bids  thee  stay. 

Go  not !     Thou  cans't  not  go  !     The  storm  is  kind  ! 

Mark  yon  white  breakers  driven  before  the  wind  ! 

Let  tempests  give  what  fain  I'd  owe  to  thee 

And  right  be  done  to  love  by  wind  and  sea. 

Too  much,  though  just,  it  were  that  thou  should'st  fly 

From  me  o'er  angry  floods  and  foundering  die. 

Too  costly  is  thy  hate,  if  loss  of  life 

Seem  a  less  evil  than  the  hated  wife. 

Soon  will  the  sea  grow  calm,  winds  cease  to  rave, 

And  Triton's  steeds  skim  lightly  o'er  the  wave. 

Ah  !  would  such  change  could  o'er  thy  spirit  come  ! 

It  will,  if  pity  in  thy  heart  finds  room. 


OVID.  39 

The  perilous  deep  is  not  unknown  to  thee  : 

Thou  oft  hast  tried  —  still  can'st  thou  trust  —  the  sea  ? 

Weigh  anchor  e'en  when  ocean  smiles  —  how  rife 

With  ills  and  hardships  is  the  seaman's  life  ! 

Nor  think  the  main  to  broken  faith  is  kind ; 

There  traitors  oft  their  treason's  guerdon  find  — 

Love's  traitors  most ;  for,  as  the  story  goes, 

'Twas  from  the  sea  that  Love's  great  parent  rose. 

Lost,  I  would  save  thee ;  wronged,  I  seek  thy  good, 

And  snatch  my  foe  from  the  o'erwhelming  flood. 

Live ;  thou  wilt  suffer  less  by  death  than  shame  ; 

Live,  while  I  die,  and  bear  a  murderer's  name. 

What,  if  thy  barque  yield  to  the  tempest's  power, 

(Avert  it  Heaven  !)  will  be  thy  thoughts  that  hour? 

Then  to  thy  mind  thy  perjuries  will  come, 

The  Trojan's  treachery  and  Dido's  doom ; 

Then,  stained  with  blood,  and  with  dishevelled  hair, 

Thy  much  wronged  wife's  sad  spectre  will  appear ; 

Then,  conscience-struck,  Heaven's  justice   thou  wilt 

own 
And  think  the  lightnings  hurled  at  thee  alone. 
Awhile  to  pity  and  the  sea  give  way, 
Thy  safety,  sure,  is  worth  a  short  delay. 
Think  not  of  me,  but  of  thy  youthful  son, 
Enough  that  on  thee  rests  the  death  of  one. 
Thy  boy,  thy  household  gods,  compassion  claim. 
Shall  waters   whelm   what   has   been   snatched   from 

flame? 
But  ah  !  no  gods  thou  hast.     Nor  gods  nor  sire 
By  thee  were  rescued  when  Troy  sank  in  fire. 


40  BA  Y  LEA  VES. 

'Twas  falsehood  every  word  ;  nor  I  the  first 

In  trusting  to  thy  well-coined  stories  curst. 

Where  is  the  mother  of  thy  son,  thy  bride  ? 

Deserted  by  her  ruthless  lord  she  died. 

That  tale  my  doting  heart  unwarned  could  hear. 

Spare  not !  my  folly  merits  all  I  bear. 

Ten  years  o'er  land  and  sea  a  wanderer  driven  — 

0  who  can  doubt  thou  art  accurst  of  Heaven  ? 
Thrown  on  my  coast,  I  harboured  thee ;  scarce  heard 
The  outcast's  name  and  kingly  power  conferred. 
And  would  my  bounty  had  but  ended  here, 

Nor  lavished  on  thee  treasures  yet  more  dear  ! 
Woe  worth  that  day,  when,  as  the  tempest  broke, 
We  in  a  sheltering  cavern  refuge  took. 

1  heard  a  cry ;  methought  the  wood-nymphs  hailed 
My  bridal ;  'twas  my  doom  by  Furies  pealed. 
Avenge,  O  Chastity,  thy  outraged  name ; 

I  to  Sichaeus  bear  a  load  of  shame. 

I  keep  his  statue  in  a  marble  shrine 

Where  garlands  green  and  fleecy  fillets  twine. 

There  four  times  have  I  heard  the  call  to  doom. 

Four  times  himself  has  whispered,  "  Dido,  come  ! " 

I  come,  I  come  !     Dread  consort,  thine  I  am, 

Though  still  I  dread  to  meet  thee  in  my  shame. 

Forgive  my  fault ;  strong  was  the  tempter's  spell ; 

I  fell,  but  through  no  weak  delusion  fell. 

A  goddess  mother  and  a  rescued  sire 

Seemed  pledges  of  a  love  that  would  not  tire. 

Err  if  I  must,  my  error  was  not  mean. 

Give  him  but  truth,  where  will  his  peer  be  seen? 


OVID.  41 

From  birth  to  death  in  one  unbroken  flow 

Of  misery  runs  my  life,  a  changeless  woe. 

Slain  at  the  altar's  side  my  husband  lies, 

His  brother  does  the  deed  and  grasps  the  prize. 

I  leave  his  ashes,  leave  my  own  loved  home, 

And  chased  by  foes  to  unknown  lands  I  roam  ; 

Escape  a  brother's  hate,  an  angry  sea, 

And  buy  a  realm  —  to  give,  false  wretch,  to  thee. 

I  found  a  city  that  with  rising  towers 

And  spreading  walls  offends  the  neighbouring  powers. 

Then  wars  arise  and  threat  with  loud  alarms 

My  frail  estate,  weak  gates,  and  scanty  arms. 

Suitors  unnumbered  next  my  peace  assail, 

Each  fancying  that  his  rival's  claims  prevail. 

Bind,  if  thou  wilt,  and  to  Iarbas'  gate 

Send  me,  an  offering  to  Gsetulian  hate. 

A  brother,  too,  I  have,  whose  hand  imbrued 

With  my  lost  lord's  would  lightly  shed  my  blood. 

No  more  those  gods,  those  holy  things,  profane ; 

The  hands  that  worship  should  be  free  from  stain. 

Thy  gods  might  grieve  to  have  escaped  the  flame 

Doomed  to  receive  thy  ministry  of  shame. 

What  if,  cast  off,  a  mother  I  should  be 

And  in  this  bosom  bear  a  pledge  of  thee? 

The  child  will  share  its  mother's  funeral  pyre, 

And  yet  unborn  be  murdered  by  its  sire. 

Fate  links  a  guiltless  to  a  guilty  life, 

lulus'  brother  dies  when  dies  thy  wife. 

Heaven  bids  thee  go.     Why  did  it  bid  thee  come  ? 

Why  to  no  land  but  mine  could  Trojans  roam? 


42  BA  Y  LEA  VES. 

And  say,  has  not  this  Guiding  Power  of  thine 

Tost  thee  long  years  on  the  tempestuous  brine  ? 

Scarce  Troy  itself  would  all  these  pains  repay, 

If  still  it  stood  grand  as  in  Hector's  day. 

Simois  is  known,  but  strange  is  Tiber's  shore  : 

Thou  art  an  alien  still,  thy  wanderings  o'er. 

And  life  may  fail  e'er  thou  canst  reach  the  coast 

For  ever  near  and  yet  for  ever  lost. 

Leave  mocking  visions ;  grasp  my  certain  dower, 

Pygmalion's  treasures  and  imperial  power. 

A  happier  Ilium  to  our  Carthage  bring ; 

Here  find  thy  promised  land,  here  reign  a  king. 

Is  war  thy  passion  ?     Does  lulus  burn 

From  glorious  fields  in  triumph  to  return? 

Doubt  not,  a  worthy  foeman  shall  be  found  ; 

The  conqueror's  pastimes  in  these  realms  abound. 

But,  by  thy  mother,  by  the  shafts  of  might 

Thy  brother  shoots,  the  gods  that  shared  thy  flight — 

So  may'st  thou  save  the  remnant  of  thy  host, 

And  none  the  ten  years'  siege  has  spared  be  lost  — 

So  for  thy  son  may  blessings  never  cease, 

And  thy  loved  father's  ashes  rest  in  peace  — 

Wreck  not  the  house  that  gives  itself  to  thee. 

I  love  —  no  fault  else  can'st  thou  find  in  me. 

I  came  from  no  detested  Grecian  land, 

Nor  did  my  kin  against  thy  country  stand. 

Hat'st  thou  to  call  me  wife?     I'll  waive  that  name ; 

Thine  let  her  be  and  Dido  fears  no  shame. 

I  know  the  waves  that  beat  on  Afric's  coast, 

The  passage  at  set  times  is  clear  or  lost. 


O  VID.  43 

When  all  is  fair,  set  forth  upon  thy  way, 

Now  stranded  seaweed  warns  in  port  to  stay. 

Set  me  to  watch ;  I'll  be  a  trusty  seer, 

Nor,  even  if  thou  wiliest,  keep  thee  here. 

Thy  comrades  need  repose,  thy  shattered  fleet 

But  half-repaired  is  scarce  seaworthy  yet. 

Much  I  have  done  for  thee,  may  yet  do  more ; 

For  my  lost  hopes  a  respite  I  implore, 

While  seas  grow  calm  and  love,  while  suffering  trains 

My  spirit  bravely  to  endure  these  pains. 

Refuse  the  boon,  at  once  with  life  I  part ; 

Thou  shalt  not  trample  long  on  this  poor  heart. 

Would,  while  I  write,  thou  could'st  the  writer  see  : 

The  Trojan  sword  is  resting  on  my  knee ; 

Tears  down  my  cheeks  are  coursing  in  a  flood 

And  wet  the  blade ;  soon  it  will  stream  with  blood. 

Thy  gift  well  suits  my  lot,  and  cheaply  paid 

Will  be  thy  parting  tribute  to  my  shade ; 

Nor  will  thy  weapon  first  my  bosom  wound  ; 

Love's  shaft  has  there  already  entrance  found. 

Anna,  my  sister,  conscious  of  my  shame, 

My  ashes  soon  will  thy  last  office  claim. 

Grave  not  "  Sichaeus'  wife  "  upon  my  tomb, 

Yet  briefly  tell  the  story  of  my  doom  : 

Let  with  my  name  /Eneas'  name  be  shown ; 

The  cause,  the  sword  was  his ;  the  hand  my  own. 


HORACE. 
Od.  I.  v. 

Quis  multa  gracilis  te  puer  in  rosa  — 
TO   PYRRHA. 

WHAT  slender  youth,  with  perfumed  locks, 
In  some  sweet  nook  beneath  the  rocks, 
Pyrrha,  where  clustering  roses  grow, 
Bends  to  thy  fatal  beauty  now? 
For  whom  is  now  that  golden  hair 
Wreathed  in  a  band  so  simply  fair? 
How  often  will  he  weep  to  find 
Thy  pledges  frail,  Love's  power  unkind, 
And  start  to  see  the  tempest  sweep 
With  angry  blast  the  darkening  deep, 
Though,  sunned  by  thy  entrancing  smile, 
He  fears  no  change,  suspects  no  guile? 
A  sailor  on  bright  summer  seas, 
He  wots  not  of  the  fickle  breeze. 
For  me  —  yon  votive  tablet  scan ; 
It  tells  that  I,  a  shipwrecked  man, 
Hung  my  dank  weeds  in  Neptune's  fane 
And  ne'er  will  tempt  those  seas  again. 
44 


HORACE.  45 

Od.   I.  XI. 

Tu  ne  qucesieris,  scire  ne/as,  quern  mihi,  quem  tibi — 
IGNORANCE  OF  THE  FUTURE  IS   BLISS. 

DRAW  not  that  curtain,  lady  mine  ; 
Seek  no  diviner's  art 
To  read  my  destiny  or  thine  — 
It  is  not  wisdom's  part. 

Whether  our  years  be  many  more, 

Or  our  last  winter  this, 
Which  breaks  the  waves  on  yonder  shore  — 

Our  ignorance  is  bliss. 

Then  fill  the  wine-cup  while  you  can, 

And  let  us  banish  sorrow ; 
Cut  short  thy  hopes  to  suit  thy  span, 

And  never  trust  to-morrow. 

Od.  I.  xxiii. 

Vitas  hihnuleo  me  similis,  Chloe  — 
TO  A   COY   GIRL. 

CHLOE,  thou  fliest  me  like  a  fawn 
That  on  some  lonely  upland  lawn, 
Seeking  its  dam,  in  winds  and  trees 
Imaginary  dangers  sees. 


46  BAY  LEAVES. 

Does  Spring's  fresh  breeze  the  foliage  shake 

Or  lizard  rustle  in  the  brake, 

At  once  it  quakes  in  heart  and  limb. 

Yet  I,  sweet  girl,  no  tiger  grim, 

No  fierce  Gaetulian  lion  am. 

Then,  no  more,  fawn-like,  seek  thy  dam, 

But  bury  all  thy  fond  alarms  — 

'Tis  time  thou  should'st  —  in  true  love's  arms. 


Od.  I.  xxxi. 

Quid  dedicatum  poscit  Apollinem  — 
THE  POET'S  PRAYER. 

WHEN  bending  at  Apollo's  shrine 
The  Poet  pours  the  hallowed  wine, 
What  think  ye  is  the  Poet's  prayer? 
Not  gorgeous  India's  treasures  rare, 
Not  rich  Sardinia's  hoards  of  grain, 
Not  herds  from  hot  Calabria's  plain, 
Not  meadows  such  as  thou  dost  lave, 
Still  Liris,  with  thy  silent  wave. 
Let  Fortune's  favourite  dress  the  vine 
That  yields  Calenum's  priceless  wine  ; 
The  trader,  blest  of  Heaven,  whose  sails 
Have  safely  oft  Atlantic  gales 
Weathered,  from  golden  goblets  drain 
The  costly  draught  his  ventures  gain. 
Mine  be  the  light  poetic  fare 
That  my  own  garden  yields.     My  prayer, 


HORACE.  47 

Son  of  Latona,  is  no  more 

Than  to  enjoy  my  frugal  store, 
Sound  both  in  body  and  in  mind  ; 
Nor,  as  old  age  steals  on,  to  find 
My  harp  unstrung  or  friends  unkind. 


Od.   I.  XXXVIII. 

Persicos  odi,  puer,  apparatus  — 
SIMPLICITY. 

LEAVE  costly  wreaths  for  lordly  brows  : 
Of  myrtle  let  my  chaplet  be  ; 
Seek  not  for  autumn's  lingering  rose ; 
Twine  but  the  myrtle,  boy,  for  me. 

Of  all  that  blooms  there's  naught  so  fit 
For  thee,  my  boy,  that  pour'st  the  wine ; 

For  me,  that  quaff  it  as  I  sit 

O'erarched  by  this  embowering  vine. 

Od.  II.  vii. 

O  s&pe  mecum  tempus  in  ultimum  — 
WELCOME  TO  A   LONG  ABSENT  FRIEND. 

THOU  that  so  oft  where  Brutus  led 
With  me  hast  marched  to  do  or  die, 
What  god  my  long-lost  friend  hath  sped 
Back  to  his  home,  his  native  sky? 


48  BAY  LEAVES, 

How  oft,  our  brows  with  garlands  crowned, 
Together,  comrade  of  my  prime, 

We've  made  the  merry  cup  go  round, 
And  lent  new  wings  to  leaden  Time  ! 

Together,  too,  Philippi's  flight 

We  shared  (my  buckler  basely  left) 

When  Honour  bit  the  dust  and  Might, 
That  tower'd  so  high,  to  earth  was  cleft. 

Me  in  a  cloud  Dan  Mercury 

Bore  trembling  off  from  war's  alarms  ; 
But  thee  once  more  the  surges  high 

Swept  down  the  stormy  tide  of  arms. 

To  Jove  then  be  the  offering  paid, 
And  here  beneath  my  laurel-tree 

Let  thy  war-wearied  limbs  be  laid, 
Nor  spare  the  cask  long  kept  for  thee. 

Bid  the  bright  goblet  mantle  high 

With  wine,  the  sovereign  balm  for  care ; 

Pour  the  rich  scents  —  Ho  !  loiterers,  fly 
And  braid  the  chaplets  for  our  hair. 

Reach  me  the  dice  and  let  us  see 
Who  shall  be  master  of  our  feast. 

Mad  as  a  Bacchanal  I'd  be, 

With  thee,  my  long-lost  friend,  for  guest. 


HORACE.  49 


Od.  II.  ix. 

Non  semper  imbres  nublbus  hispidos  — 
TO  A  FRIEND  WHO   HAD   LOST  HIS  LOVE. 

THERE  is  a  respite  to  the  rain 
That  mars  the  landscape,  to  the  winds 
That  vex  with  ruffling  blasts  the  main ; 
A  respite  to  the  frost  that  binds 

In  its  dull  chain  Armenia's  hill ; 

A  respite  to  the  storms  that  tear 
Garganus'  tossing  oaks  and  fill 

With  flying  ash-leaves  all  the  air. 

But,  Valgius,  to  thy  plaintive  cry 
For  thy  lost  love  is  respite  none, 

Neither  when  stars  come  forth  on  high, 
Nor  when  they  fly  the  rising  sun. 

Nestor's  lost  son  was  Nestor's  joy, 
Yet  the  sire  mourned  not  all  his  years, 

And  they  who  wept  the  Trojan  boy, 

Well  as  they  loved  him,  dried  their  tears. 

Cease  then,  my  friend,  thy  amorous  plaint, 
And  turn  we  to  a  nobler  theme  ; 

Great  Caesar's  trophies  let  us  chant 
And  sing  how  Scythia's  icy  stream 


50  BA  Y  LEA  VES. 

And  Media's  river,  conquered,  roll 
In  humble  guise  their  shrunken  tide, 

While,  bounded  now  by  stern  control, 
The  wild  Gelonian  horsemen  ride. 


Od.  II.  xv. 

yam  pauca  aratro  jugera — 

AGAINST  THE  SELFISH  LUXURY  OF  A  DEGENERATE 
AGE. 

THE  palace  soon  will  oust  the  plough, 
Our  ponds  the  Lucrine  lake  outgrow, 
Patrician  planes  in  barren  line 
Supplant  the  elm  that  bore  the  vine. 
Now  violet  beds  and  myrtle  bowers 
And  the  whole  tribe  of  perfumed  flowers 
Scatter  their  sweets  where  olives  bore 
Their  fruit  to  fill  the  yeoman's  store, 
While  with  its  leafy  screen  the  bay 
Shuts  out  the  summer's  burning  ray. 
Not  this  the  faith  our  Founder  held, 
That  Cato  taught  and  bearded  eld. 
The  private  fortunes  then  were  small, 
The  Commonwealth  was  all  in  all. 
Then  no  unmeasured  colonnade 
Rose  one  rich  idler's  walk  to  shade ; 


HORACE.  51 

Of  casual  turf  each  built  his  home, 
Such  was  the  rule  in  nobler  Rome ; 
While  all  combined  with  stately  stone 
To  deck  the  temple  and  the  town. 


Od.  II.  xvi. 

Otium  divos  rogat  — 
PEACE  AND  QUIET. 

FOR  ease  the  weary  seaman  prays 
On  the  wild  ocean,  tempest  tost, 
When  guiding  stars  withhold  their  rays, 
When  pales  the  moon  in  cloud-wrack  lost. 

For  ease  the  Median  archers  sigh, 
For  ease  the  Thracian  warrior  bold ; 

But  ease,  my  friend,  nor  gems  can  buy, 
Nor  purple  robes,  nor  mighty  gold. 

No  lacquey  train,  no  consul's  guard 
Can  keep  the  spectral  crowd  aloof 

That  throngs  the  troubled  mind,  or  ward 
The  cares  that  haunt  the  gilded  roof. 

Upon  a  frugal  board  to  see 

The  old  paternal  silver  shine ; 
Light  sleep  from  care  and  canker  free  — 

This  happy,  lowly  lot  be  mine. 


52  BAY  LEAVES. 

The  mortal  frames  a  mighty  plan, 
And  framing  dies,  a  fretful  elf; 

He  posts,  unresting,  through  his  span, 
And  flies,  but  ne'er  escapes  himself. 

Care  sits  upon  the  swelling  sail, 

Care  mounts  the  warrior's  barbed  steed ; 

The  bounding  stag,  the  driving  gale, 
Are  laggards  to  her  deadly  speed. 

Come  weal,  we'll  joy  while  joy  we  may, 
And  let  the  future  veil  the  rest ; 

Come  woe,  we'll  smile  its  gloom  away, 
Since  naught  that  is  is  always  blest. 

Achilles  died  before  his  hour, 

Tithonus  lived  while  time  grew  old ; 

The  self- same  boon  the  self-same  power, 
To  me  may  give,  from  thee  withhold. 

Around  thy  dome  unnumbered  stray 
The  flocks  ;  Sicilian  heifers  low, 

Coursers  of  glorious  lineage  neigh  ; 
Thy  robes  with  Afric's  purple  glow. 

A  home  that  fits  a  poet's  state, 

A  spark,  though  small,  of  poet's  fire, 

A  poet's  heart  to  scorn  dull  hate  — 
All  this  I  have,  nor  more  desire. 


HORACE.  53 

Od.   III.  V. 

CcbIo  tonantem  credidimus  Jovem  — 

[The  desire  for  ransoming  the  soldiers  of  Crassus  who  had  been 
taken  prisoners  by  the  Parthians  is  rebuked  by  an  appeal  to  the 
example  of  Regulus.J 

JOVE,  so  faith  holds,  in  thunder  reigns  above ; 
Augustus  is  a  present  god  below ; 
His  deity  the  conquered  Persians  prove 

And  Britons  taught  before  our  might  to  bow. 

Rome,  could  thy  soldier,  once  by  Crassus  led, 

Put  off  his  fealty,  renounce  thy  name, 
In  a  strange  land  a  vile  barbarian  wed 

And  drag  in  her  embrace  an  age  of  shame  ? 

Could  the  stout  Marsian,  the  Apulian  brave, 
Forget  the  shrines,  the  glories  of  his  home, 

To  live  in  Median  garb  a  Median's  slave, 

While  yet  Jove's  temple  stood,  while  yet  stood  Rome  ? 

This,  Regulus,  thy  patriot  soul  foresaw  —  • 

And  hence  did  thou  denounce  the  compact  base, 

Lest  one  ignoble  precedent  should  draw 
In  time  to  come  dishonour  on  the  race. 

Sternly  he  bade  let  die  the  captive  bands 

Unransomed.     "  Shameful  sights,"  the  hero  said  — 

"  Arms  wrested  from  a  living  Roman's  hands, 
Our  standards  in  the  foeman's  fanes  displayed  — 


54  BA  Y  LEA  V.ES. 

"  These  eyes  have  seen  —  a  freeman's  name  belied 
By  freemen  who  the  conqueror's  fetters  wore, 

The  Carthaginian's  gates  thrown  open  wide, 
And  fields  our  war  had  wasted  tilled  once  more. 

"  Think  ye  the  coward,  ransomed,  will  be  brave  ? 

Ye  do  but  lose  your  gold  and  honour  too. 
Wool  that  has  drunk  the  dye  'twere  vain  to  lave ; 

Never  will  it  regain  its  native  hue. 

"  So  genuine  valour,  let  it  once  depart 
From  its  degraded  seat,  returns  no  more. 

What,  have  ye  e'er  beheld  the  timorous  hart, 

Loosed  from  the  tangling  toils,  the  huntsman  gore? 

"Then  will  ye  see  the  slave,  fresh  manhood  donned, 
On  other  fields  make  Punic  squadrons  fly  — 

Him  who  has  felt  the  ignominious  bond 
Upon  his  caitiff  limbs  and  feared  to  die  ! 

"  Dreaming  of  peace  in  war,  his  craven  heart 

Discerned  not  whence  alone  true  life  could  come. 

O  day  of  shame  !     Carthage,  how  great  thou  art, 
Exalted  on  the  ruined  pride  of  Rome  !  " 

'Tis  said  that  from  his  children  pressing  round, 
And  the  fond  wife  that  for  his  kisses  sued, 

He,  as  an  outlaw,  turned,  and  on  the  ground 
Bending  his  gaze,  stern  and  relentless  stood, 


HORACE.  55 

Until  his  voice  had  fixed  the  wavering  State 
In  counsel  never  given  but  on  that  day ; 

Then,  through  the  weeping  concourse,  from  the  gate 
To  glorious  banishment  he  took  his  way. 

Full  well  the  patriot  knew  what  torturing  pain 
He  soon  must  suffer  from  the  foeman's  wrath ; 

Yet  did  he  move  kinsmen  and  crowds,  that  fain 
Had  barred  his  way  at  parting,  from  his  path, 

With  mien  as  calm  as  if,  the  weary  round 
Of  business  run  and  the  long  lawsuit  o'er, 

He  for  his  green  Venafran  fields  were  bound 
Or  old  Tarentum's  legendary  shore. 


Od.  III.  vn. 

Quid  fiest  Asterie  — 
TO  A  GIRL  WHOSE  LOVER  WAS  ABSENT  AT  SEA. 

SPRING  gales  will  waft  him  back  to  thee, 
Asterie  —  wherefore  pine  ? 
With  goodly  bales  from  o'er  the  sea  — 
Thy  Gyges,  ever  thine. 

Driven  by  the  wild  autumnal  gales, 

To  some  far  northern  cove, 
The  weary  night  he  wakes  and  wails 

For  thee,  his  absent  love. 


56  BAY  LEAVES. 

Though  from  a  lovesick  northern  dame 

An  envoy  steals,  to  tell 
That  Chloe's  heart  hath  caught  thy  flame, 

And  plies  each  potent  spell. 

Whispering  how,  as  the  legends  say, 

Too  chaste  Bellerophon 
By  her,  whose  love  he  cast  away, 

To  death  was  well-nigh  done. 

How  Peleus,  too,  had  all  but  rued 

Dearly  his  virtue  cold  : 
Each  tale  that  fires*  the  wanton  blood 

But  all  in  vain  are  told. 

As  cliffs  that  billows  beat  in  vain, 

So  is  he  to  her  art ; 
But  thou,  fair  girl  —  there  dwells  a  swain 

Hard  by  —  guard  well  thy  heart ! 

Though  'mid  the  wondering  ring,  like  him, 
The  courser  none  can  guide  ; 

None  with  an  arm  so  lusty  swim 
Down  yellow  Tiber's  tide. 

At  nightfall  be  thy  lattice  shut, 

Nor  look  down  to  the  way, 
When  thou  dost  hear  the  plaintive  flute, 

And  say  no  yielding  Nay. 


HORACE.  57 

Od.  III.  IX. 

Donee  gratus  eram  tibi  — 

THE  RECONCILIATION   OF  LOVERS. 

[This  and  the  piece  which  follows  have  so  high  and  so  deserved 
a  reputation  as  works  of  art  that  one  almost  shrinks  from  offering  a 
translation.  It  has  been  necessary  to  take  a  liberty  with  the  last  line 
but  two.  Levior  cortice  literally  rendered  into  English  would  spoil 
the  effect.  The  poem  is  evidently  a  dialogue  ;  but  the  critics  pro- 
nounce it  bad  taste  to  prefix  the  names  of  the  interlocutors,  Horace 
and  Lydia.] 

WHILE  thou  wert  true,  while  thou  wert  kind, 
Ere  round  that  snowy  neck  of  thine 
A  happier  youth  his  arms  had  twined, 
No  monarch's  lot  could  match  with  mine. 

While  Lydia  was  thy  only  flame, 

Ere  yet  thy  heart  had  learned  to  rove, 

Not  Roman  Ilia's  glorious  name 

Could  match  with  hers  that  owned  thy  love. 

Sweet  Chloe  is  my  mistress  now, 

Queen  of  the  dance,  the  song,  the  lyre ; 

And  O  !  to  death  I'd  lightly  go 

So  fate  would  spare  my  heart's  desire. 

For  Calais  not  in  vain  I  sigh, 

His  city's  pride,  his  father's  joy ; 
And  O  !  a  double  death  I'd  die 

So  death  would  spare  my  Thuriat  boy. 


58  BAY  LEAVES. 

What  if  the  banished  love  return 

And  link  once  more  the  broken  chain  ? 

What  if  I  fair-haired  Chloe  spurn 
And  welcome  Lydia  home  again  ? 

Though  he  were  lovelier  than  a  star, 
Inconstant  thou  as  clouds  that  fly 

And  curst  as  Adria's  waters  are,  — 
With  thee  I'd  live,  with  thee  I'd  die. 


Od.  III.  xiii. 

O  fons  Bandusice,  splendid  lor  vitro  -^ 
THE  SPRING  OF  BANDUSIA. 

SPRING  OF  BANDUSIA,  crystal  clear, 
Worthy  this  cup  of  mantling  wine, 
These  votive  flowers  which  here  I  bear ; 
To-morrow  shall  a  kid  be  thine  — 

Yon  kid  whose  horns  begin  to  bud 
And  tell  of  coming  love  and  fight, 

In  vain ;  the  little  wanton's  blood 

Is  doomed  to  dye  thy  streamlet  bright. 

Midsummer's  noon  with  scorching  ray 
Taints  not  thy  virgin  wave,  and  dear 

Is  its  cool  draught  at  close  of  day 

To  wandering  flock  and  weary  steer.    * 


HORACE.  59 

Thou  too  shalt  be  a  spring  renowned, 

If  verse  of  mine  can  fame  bestow- 
On  yonder  grot,  with  holm-oak  crowned, 
From  which  thy  babbling  waters  flow. 


Od.  III.  xxi. 

O  nata  mecum  consule  Manlio  — 

TO  A  CASK  OF  WINE  MADE  IN   THE  YEAR  IN 
WHICH  HORACE  WAS  BORN. 

MY  good  contemporary  cask,  whatever  thou  dost 
keep 
Stored   up  in  thee  —  smiles,  tears,  wild  loves,   mad 

brawls,  or  easy  sleep  — 
Whate'er  thy  grape  was  charged  withal,  thy  hour  is 

come ;  descend ; 
Corvinus  bids;   my  mellowest  wine  must  greet   my 

dearest  friend. 
Sage  and  Socratic  though  he  be,  the  juice  he  will  not 

spurn, 
That  many  a  time  made  glow,  they  say,  old  Cato's 

virtue  stern. 
There's  not  a  heart  so  hard  but  thou  beneath  its  guard 

canst  steal, 
There's  not  a  soul  so  close  but  thou  its  secret  canst  reveal. 
There's  no  despair  but  thou  canst  cheer,  no  wretch's 

lot  so  low 
But  thou  canst  raise,  and  bid  him  brave  the  tyrant 

and  the  foe. 


60  BAY  LEAVES. 

Please   Bacchus   and   the   Queen   of   Love   and  the 

linked  Graces  three, 
Till  lamps  shall  fail  and  stars  grow  pale,  we'll  make  a 

night  with  thee. 


Od.  III.  xxix. 

Tyrrhena  regum  progenies  — 
THE   POET'S   INVITATION   TO  THE  STATESMAN. 

SCION  of  old  Etruria's  royal  line, 
Maecenas,  all  awaits  thee  in  my  home ; 
For  thee  is  broached  the  cask  of  mellow  wine, 
For  thee  the  perfume  breathes,  the  roses  bloom. 

Delay  no  more,  but  come,  O  long  desired  ; 

Turn  not  thine  eyes  to  Tiber's  falling  tide 
And  ^Esula,  on  her  rich  slope  retired, 

And  yonder  hill,  hold  of  the  Parricide. 

Leave  luxury,  my  friend,  that  only  cloys 

And  thy  proud  mansion's  heavenward-soaring  dome  ; 
Bid  for  an  hour  farewell  to  smoke  and  noise 

And  all  that  dazzles  in  imperial  Rome. 

Oft  has  a  change  been  pleasing  to  the  great, 
Oft  the  trim  cottage  and  its  simple  fare 

Served  'mid  no  purple  tapestries  of  state, 

Have  smoothed  the  wrinkles  on  the  brow  of  care. 


HORACE.  61 

Andromeda's  bright  Sire  now  lights  on  high 
His  cresset,  Procyon  darts  his  burning  rays, 

The  Lion's  star  rides  rampant  in  the  sky, 
And  summer  brings  again  the  sultry  days. 

Now  with  their  panting  flocks  the  weary  swains 
To  cooling  stream  and  bosky  dell  repair ; 

Along  the  lea  deep  noontide  silence  reigns, 
No  breath  is  stirring  in  the  noontide  air. 

Thou  still  art  busied  with  a  statesman's  toils, 
Still  labouring  to  forecast  with  patriot  breast 

Bactria's  designs,  Scythia's  impending  broils, 
The  storms  that  gather  in  the  distant  East. 

Heaven  in  its  wisdom  bids  the  future  lie 

Wrapt  in  the  darkness  of  profoundest  night, 

And  smiles  when  anxious  mortals  strive  to  pry 

Beyond  the  limits  fixed  to  mortal  sight. 

i 

Serenely  meet  the  present ;  all  beside 

Is  like  yon  stream  that  now  along  the  plain 

Floats  towards  the  Tuscan  sea  with  tranquil  tide, 
Soon  —  when  the  deluge  of  downpouring  rain 

Stirs  the  calm  waters  to  a  wilder  mood  — 

Whirls  down  trees,  flocks,  and  folds  with  angry  swell, 

While  with  the  din  loud  roars  the  neighbouring  wood, 
And  echo  shouts  her  answer  from  the  fell. 


62  BAY  LEAVES. 

The  happy  master  of  one  cheerful  soul 
Is  he,  who  still  can  cry  at  close  of  day  — 

"  Life  has  been  mine  !     To-morrow  let  the  pole 
Be  dark  with  cloud  or  beam  with  genial  ray, 

"As  Jove  may  will ;  but  to  reverse  the  past 
Or  to  annul,  not  Jove  himself  hath  power ; 

Not  Jove  himself  can  uncreate  or  blast 

Joys  once  borne  onward  by  the  flying  hour. 

"  Fortune  exulting  in  her  cruel  trade, 

Sporting  with  hearts,  mocking  her  victim's  sighs, 
Smiles  on  us  all  in  turn,  a  fickle  jade, 

Bestows  on  each  in  turn  her  fleeting  prize. 

"  While  she  is  mine,  'tis  well ;  but  if  her  wing 
She  wave,  with  all  her  gifts  I  lightly  part, 

The  mantle  of  my  virtue  round  me  fling, 
And  clasp  undowered  honour  to  my  heart. 

"  Blow  winds,  let  mainmasts  crack  !     No  need  have  I 
To  bribe  the  gods  with  vows  or  lift  in  prayer 

My  frantic  hands,  lest  the  rich  argosy 

Freighted  with  Cyprian  or  with  Tyrian  ware 

"  Add  to  the  treasures  of  the  greedy  main. 

Safe  in  my  shallop  while  the  tempests  rave, 
And,  shielded  by  the  Heavenly  Brothers  twain, 

I  dare  the  hurly  of  the  ^Egean  wave." 


HORACE.  63 

Epode  II. 

Beatus  ille,  qui  procul  negotiis  — 
A  RICH  USURER'S  DREAM  OF  RURAL  HAPPINESS. 

"  T3  LEST  man  who,  far  from  care  and  strife, 

I  3     Leads  like  the  men  of  yore  his  life, 
Who  tills  his  old  paternal  lot, 
Whom  grasping  usury  troubles  not, 
Whom  trumpet  never  wakes  from  sleep, 
Who  quakes  not  at  the  angry  deep, 
Who  shuns  the  courts,  nor  cares  to  wait 
A  suitor  at  the  rich  man's  gate. 
In  wedlock  now  his  task  to  join 
The  poplar  tall  and  blooming  vine, 
And  now  to  watch  his  kine  that  feed 
And  low  in  some  sequestered  mead ; 
To  prune  away  the  barren  shoot 
And  graft  the  happier  hope  of  fruit. 
The  honey  in  the  cleanly  crock 
To  store,  or  shear  the  panting  flock. 
When  autumn  in  the  fields,  a  queen 
Crowned  with  her  ruddy  fruits  is  seen, 
Blithely  he  plucks  the  grafted  pear 
Or  purple  grape,  meet  gifts  to  bear, 
God  of  the  garden,  to  thy  shrine, 
Or,  God  of  Boundaries,  to  thine. 
Now  in  the  ancient  holm-oak's  shade, 
Now  on  the  matted  greensward  laid, 


64  BAY  LEAVES. 

He  takes  his  ease.     The  river's  flow 
Is  heard,  birds  warble  on  the  bough, 
And  trickling  springs  their  music  keep 
To  lull  the  soul  to  quiet  sleep. 
When  winter  with  its  blustering  storms 
Of  rain  and  snow  the  scene  transforms, 
With  hounds  and  toils  and  merry  din 
He  hems  the  doughty  wild  boar  in, 
Or  for  the  hungry  thrushes  sets 
On  slender  sticks  the  viewless  nets ; 
Or  wandering  geese  and  tim'rous  hares, 
Sweet  morsels  for  his  board,  he  snares. 
Amidst  such  scenes  as  these  what  heart 
Would  not  forget  a  lover's  smart? 
Give  me  a  partner  chaste  and  good 
To  keep  my  house  and  rear  my  brood 
(Like  those  that  graced  the  Sabine  State, 
Or  lithe  Apulian's  sunburnt  mate) 
To  make  the  fire  more  brightly  burn 
Against  her  tired  goodman's  return, 
To  pen  the  heavy-uddered  kine 
And  fill  the  pails,  to  broach  the  wine  — 
Our  last  year's  vintage,  sound  and  sweet  — 
And  furnish  forth  the  unbought  treat. 
For  Lucrine  shell-fish  naught  I  care, 
Naught  for  the  turbot  or  the  scar, 
Driven  by  the  blustering  winter's  breeze 
From  Eastern  to  Italian  seas. 
No  game  in  distant  Afric  sought 
Or  of  Ionian  fowlers  bought 


HORACE.  65 

Would  half  so  much  my  palate  please 
As  olives  from  the  goodliest  trees, 
The  wholesome  mallow  and  the  blade 
Of  sorrel  plucked  in  grassy  glade, 
Lamb  sacrificed  on  festal  day, 
Or  kid,  the  wolf's  recovered  prey. 
How  sweet,  while  thus  we  feast,  to  see 
The  sheep  fast  trooping  from  the  lea, 
The  weary  ox,  slow-pacing,  come 
With  the  inverted  plowshare  home, 
And  slave  boys,  sleek  and  full  of  mirth, 
Gathering  around  the  blazing  hearth." 

So  said  Old  Ten-per-cent,  when  he 

A  jolly  farmer  fain  would  be. 

His  moneys  he  called  in  amain  — 

Next  week  he  put  them  out  again. 


SENECA. 
Thyestes,  344-403. 

Regent  non  faciunt  opes  — 
THE  STOIC   IDEA  OF   PERFECTION. 

WHAT  makes  the  king  ?     His  treasure  ?    No ; 
Nor  yet  the  circlet  on  his  brow, 
Nor  yet  the  purple  robe  of  state, 
Nor  yet  the  golden  palace  gate. 
The  king  is  he  who  knows  not  fear, 
Whose  breast  no  angry  passions  tear, 
Who  scorns  insane  ambition's  wreath, 
The  maddening  crowd's  inconstant  breath, 
The  wealth  of  Europe's  mines,  the  gold 
In  the  bright  tide  of  Tagus  rolled, 
And  the  unmeasured  stores  of  grain 
Garnered  from  Libya's  sultry  plain, 
Who  quails  not  at  the  levin  stroke, 
On  raging  storms  can  calmly  look, 
Though  the  wild  winds  on  Adria  rave 
And  round  him  swells  the  threatening  wave, 
Who  trembles  not  at  thrust  of  spear, 
Feels  of  the  flashing  steel  no  fear, 
66 


SENECA.  67 

Who  from  his  spirit's  height  serene 
Looks  down  upon  the  troubled  scene, 
And,  uncomplaining,  when  his  date 
Has  come,  goes  forth  to  meet  his  fate. 
With  kings  in  grandeur  let  them  vie 
Before  whose  arms  wild  Dahans  fly, 
Who  o'er  Arabia's  burning  sea 
Stretch  out  their  gorgeous  empery, 
Who  dare  Sarmatian  horsemen  brave 
And  march  o'er  Danube's  frozen  wave 
Or  the  strange  land  of  fleecy  trees. 
True  kingship  is  a  mind  at  ease. 
No  need  is  there  of  charger's  might, 
Of  Parthian  arrow  shot  in  flight ; 
Of  engines  dire,  whose  hurtling  showers 
Of  missiles  shake  beleaguered  towers. 
The  king,  a  king  self-crowned,  is  he 
Who  from  desire  and  fear  is  free. 
Who  would  the  power  of  courtiers  share 
May  mount  ambition's  slippery  stair ; 
To  live  by  all  the  world  forgot 
In  ease  and  quiet  be  my  lot, 
And  as  my  noiseless  days  glide  past 
To  rest  unnoted  to  the  last. 

Well  may  the  man  his  end  bemoan 
Who  dies  to  others  too  well-known, 
A  stranger  to  himself  alone. 


LUCAN. 
Pharsalia  I.  1 19-182. 

[The  opening  of  the  Civil  War.  The  reference  in  the  first  line 
is  to  Julia,  daughter  of  Caesar  and  wife  of  Pompey,  whose  death  has 
been  narrated.] 

HER  death  the  bond  between  the  leaders  broke 
And  called  to  war ;  then  rival  passions  woke. 
That  new  achievements  might  o'er  old  prevail, 
Piratic  laurels  before  Gallic  pale, 
Was  Pompey's  fear.     His  rival  in  the  race, 
Now  flushed  with  victory,  scorned  the  second  place. 
Caesar  in  power  would  no  superior  own, 
Pompey  would  brook  no  partner  of  his  throne. 
Which  of  the  chiefs  had  right  upon  his  side 
Is  not  for  mortal  judgment  to  decide, 
Since  either  cause  had  warranty  divine, 
The  winning  Heaven's,  the  losing,  Cato,  thine. 
Ill  were  the  champions  matched.     One,  aged  grown, 
Had  long  exchanged  the  corselet  for  the  gown ; 
In  peace  forgotten  the  commander's  art, 
And  learned  to  play  the  politician's  part, 
To  court  the  suffrage  of  the  crowd,  and  hear 
In  his  own  Theatre  the  venal  cheer. 
68 


LUCAN.  69 

Idly  he  rested  on  his  ancient  fame, 

And  was  the  shadow  of  a  mighty  name. 

Like  the  huge  oak  which  towers  above  the  fields, 

Decked  with  ancestral  spoils  and  votive  shields. 

Its  roots  once  mighty,  loosened  by  decay, 

Hold  it  no  more  ;  weight  is  its  only  stay ; 

Its  naked  limbs  bespeak  its  glories  past, 

And  by  its  trunk,  not  leaves,  a  shade  is  cast ; 

It  totters  to  each  breeze,  yet  in  the  ring 

Of  lusty  greenwood  stands  alone  a  king. 

Not  such  the  talisman  of  Caesar's  name ; 

But  Caesar  had,  in  place  of  empty  fame, 

The  unresting  soul,  the  resolution  high 

Which  shuts  out  every  thought  but  victory. 

Whate'er  his  goal,  nor  mercy  nor  dismay 

He  owned,  but  drew  the  sword  and  cleft  his  way ; 

Pressed  each  advantage  that  his  fortune  gave ; 

Constrained  the  stars  to  combat  for  the  brave ; 

Swept  from  his  path  whate'er  his  rise  delayed, 

And  marched  triumphant  through  the  wreck  he  made. 

So,  while  the  crashing  thunder  peals  on  high, 

Leaps  the  live  lightning  from  the  storm-rent  sky, 

Affrights  the  people  with  its  dazzling  flame, 

Smites  e'en  his  temple  from  whose  hand  it  came, 

Winged  with  destruction  flashes  to  and  fro, 

O'erthrows  to  reach  and  reaches  to  o'erthrow. 

Such  private  causes  moved  the  chiefs ;  but  Rome 

Was  drawn  by  empire's  sins  to  empire's  doom. 

'Whelmed  by  the  riches  of  the  conquered  earth 

The  virtue  perished  which  gave  greatness  birth. 


70  BA  Y  LEA  VES. 

From  boundless  plunder  boundless  luxury  grew, 

The  pomp  of  palaces  no  measure  knew ; 

Old  fare  pleased  pampered  appetite  no  more ; 

Robes  which  had  shamed  a  woman  manhood  wore. 

Field  unto  field  was  added  till  the  plain 

Was  turned  to  one  luxurious  lord's  domain, 

While  herds  of  foreign  slaves  their  fetters  wore 

Where  Roman  heroes  held  the  plough  of  yore. 

A  peaceful  happiness  had  lost  its  charms, 

Mere  freedom   palled   on   hearts   that   craved   for 

arms. 
When  passion  bade,  at  once  they  drew  the  sword ; 
Crime  was   no   crime  when   need   had   given   the 

word. 
With  traitorous  arms  the  country  to  enslave 
Was  deemed  the  crowning  glory  of  the  brave. 
Now  force  made  law,  force   turned   the  people's 

vote, 
Force  with  its  ruffian  hand  the  statute  wrote. 
To  duty  lost,  tribunes  with  consuls  vied 
In  boldly  thrusting  public  right  aside. 
Next  fell  corruption  filled  the  State  of  Rome ; 
The  fasces  sold  and  sealed  the  nation's  doom; 
Elections  grew  an  auction  of  disgrace, 
And  public  life  the  course  for  bribery's  race. 
Last  usury  came,  the  failing  debtor  sued, 
And  desperate  need  was  ripe  for  civil  blood. 


LUC  AN.  71 


Phars.  IX.  189-213. 

CATO  ON   THE  DEATH   OF  POMPEY. 

A  MAN,  he  said,  is  gone  unequal  far 
To  our  good  sires  in  reverence  for  the  law, 
Yet  useful  in  an  age  that  knew  not  right, 
One  who  could  power  with  liberty  unite, 
Uncrowned  'mid  willing  subjects  could  remain, 
The  Senate  rule,  yet  let  the  Senate  reign. 
The  conqueror's  force  he  hated  to  unmask, 
And  what  he  might  demand  he  stooped  to  ask. 
If  vast  his  wealth,  no  bounds  his  largess  knew ; 
He  drew  the  sword,  but  he  could  sheathe  it  too, 
War  was  his  trade,  yet  he  to  peace  inclined, 
Gladly  command  accepted  —  and  resigned. 
His  home  was  virtuous  and  austere,  nor  showed 
In  aught  that  there  thy  master,  Rome,  abode. 
He  left  a  name  that  nations  shall  revere, 
That  to  a  grateful  land  shall  still  be  dear. 
Marius  and  Sulla  genuine  freedom  slew, 
With  Pompey  e'en  the  counterfeit  withdrew. 
Now  usurpation  will  unveil  its  face, 
Nor  seek  with  forms  of  law  its  acts  to  grace. 
Thrice  happy  thou  whom  life  with  victory  left 
And  murder  only  of  disgrace  bereft. 
Of  all  the  lots,  when  naught  remains  but  breath, 
The  first  is  death  self-sought,  the  next  is  —  death. 


72  BA  Y  LEA  VES. 


Life  under  Caesar's  yoke  might  have  been  thine, 
O  be  thy  fate,  when  fortune  leaves  me,  mine. 
Of  Juba's  dagger  come  as  kind  a  thrust ; 
Rule,  tyrants,  if  ye  will,  o'er  Cato's  dust. 


Phars.  IX.  543-5 85. 

[Cato,  on  his  last  march  in  Africa,  comes  to  the  Temple  of 
Jupiter  Ammon  and  is  urged  by  his  companions  to  consult  the 
oracle,  but  refuses.] 

AT  Ammon's  portals  from  the  motley  East 
To  hear  his  oracles  the  people  pressed, 
But  all  to  the  great  Roman's  name  gave  way. 
Now  with  one  voice  Cato's  companions  pray 
That  he  will  test  the  Libyan  prophet's  claim, 
And  prove  the  truth  of  immemorial  fame. 
And  foremost  Labienus  bids  him  try 
To  look  beneath  the  veil  of  destiny. 
" A  happy  chance,"  he  cries,  "thus  on  our  road 
Presents  the  fane  where  speaks  this  mighty  god. 
Here  to  the  Syrtes  we  may  learn  the  clue, 
Here  of  the  coming  war  gain  forecast  true. 
To  whom  should  Heaven  reveal  its  high  decree, 
To  whom  speak  truth,  Cato,  if  not  to  thee  ? 
Thy  life  hath  never  swerved  from  duty's  line, 
Still  hast  thou  strictly  kept  the  law  divine. 
Here  mayest  thou  hold  with  Jove  communion  high, 
Learn  Caesar's  doom,  thy  country's  destiny ; 
Learn  whether  liberty  and  law  shall  reign, 
Or  all  this  civil  blood  has  flowed  in  vain. 


LUCAN.  73 

At  least,  since  virtue  is  to  thee  so  dear, 
Learn  what  she  is,  and  seek  her  pattern  here." 
Cato's  own  breast  was  deity's  abode  : 
Thence  came  an  answer  worthy  of  a  god. 
"What  should  I  ask?     Whether  to  live  a  slave 
Is  better,  or  to  fill  a  soldier's  grave  ? 
What  life  is  worth  drawn  to  its  utmost  span, 
And  whether  length  of  days  brings  bliss  to  man  ? 
Whether  tyrannic  force  can  hurt  the  good, 
Or  the  brave  heart  need  quail  at  Fortune's  mood  ? 
Whether  the  pure  intent  makes  righteousness, 
Or  virtue  needs  the  warrant  of  success  ? 
All  this  I  know ;  not  Ammon  can  impart 
Force  to  the  truth  engraven  on  my  heart. 
All  men  alike,  though  voiceless  be  the  shrine, 
Abide  in  God  and  act  by  will  divine. 
No  revelation  Deity  requires, 
But  at  our  birth  all  men  may  know  inspires. 
Nor  is  truth  buried  in  this  barren  sand 
And  doled  to  few,  but  speaks  in  every  land. 
What  temple,  but  the  earth,  the  sea,  the  sky, 
And  Heaven,  and  virtuous  hearts  hath  Deity? 
As  far  as  eye  can  range  or  feet  can  rove 
Jove  is  in  all  things,  all  things  are  in  Jove. 
Let  wavering  souls  to  oracles  attend, 
The  brave  man's  course  is  clear,  since  sure  his  end. 
The  valiant  and  the  coward  both  must  fall, 
This  when  Jove  tells  me,  he  has  told  me  all." 
This  said,  he  turned  him  from  the  temple  gate, 
And  left  the  crowd  to  pry  into  its  fate. 


MARTIAL. 

Epigram.  I.  xm. 

Casta  suo  gladium  cum  trader et  Arria  Pceto  — 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  ARRIA  AND  P^ETUS. 

[Csecina  Paetus  had  been  ordered  by  the  Emperor  Claudius  to 
put  an  end  to  his  life :  when  he  hesitated,  his  wife,  Arria,  showed 
him  the  way.] 

THE  poniard,  with  her  life-blood  dyed, 
When  Arria  to  her  Psetus  gave, 
"  'Twere  painless,  my  beloved,"  she  cried, 
"  If  but  my  death  thy  life  could  save." 


Epigram.  I.  xv. 

O  mi  hi  post  nullos  Juli  memorande  sodales  — 
THE  FLEETING  JOYS  OF  LIFE. 

FRIEND  of  my  heart  —  and  none  of  all  the  band 
Has  to  that  name  older  or  better  right  — 
Julius,  thy  sixtieth  winter  is  at  hand ; 

Far-spent  is  now  life's  day,  and  near  the  night. 
74 


MARTIAL.  75 

Delay  not  what  thou  would'st  recall  too  late  ; 

That  which  is  past,  that  only  call  thine  own ; 
Cares  without  end  and  tribulations  wait ; 

Joy  tarrieth  not,  but  scarcely  come,  is  flown. 

Then  grasp  it  quickly,  firmly  to  thy  heart ; 

Though  firmly  grasped,  too  oft  it  slips  away ; 
To  talk  of  living  is  not  wisdom's  part ; 

To-morrow  is  too  late  :  live  thou  to-day  ! 


Epigram.  I.  xxxix. 

Si  quis  erit,  raros  inter  numerandus  amicos  — 
THE  PERFECT  FRIEND. 

LIVES  there  a  man  whose  friendship  rare 
With  antique  friendship  may  compare ; 
In  learning  steeped,  both  old  and  new, 
Yet  unpedantic,  simple,  true ; 
Whose  soul,  ingenuous  and  upright, 
Ne'er  formed  a  wish  that  shunned  the  light ; 
Whose  sense  is  sound  ?     If  such  there  be, 
My  Decianus,  thou  art  he. 


76  BA  Y  LEA  FES. 


Epigram.  I.  lxxxix. 

Alcime,  quern  raptum  domino  crescentibus  annis  — 

ON  THE  DEATH   OF  A  YOUNG   AND   FAVOURITE 
SLAVE. 

DEAR  youth,  too  early  lost,  who  now  art  laid 
Beneath  the  turf  in  green  Labicum's  glade, 
O'er  thee  no  storied  urn,  no  laboured  bust 
I  rear  to  crumble  with  the  crumbling  dust ; 
But  tapering  box  and  shadowy  vine  shall  wave, 
And  grass,  with  tears  bedewed,  shall  clothe  thy  grave. 
These  gifts  my  sorrowing  love  to  thee  shall  bring, 
Gifts  ever  fresh  and  deathless  as  the  Spring. 
O  when  to  me  the  fatal  hour  shall  come, 
Mine  be  as  lowly  and  as  green  a  tomb  ! 

Epigram.  I.  xcm. 

Fabricio  junctus  fido  requiescit  Aquinus  — 

ON    TWO   OLD    ROMAN    OFFICERS    BURIED    SIDE    BY 
SIDE. 

[A  pleasant  trait  of  Roman  military  life.] 

AQUINUS  here  by  his  Fabricius  lies, 
Glad  that  he  first  was  summoned  to  the  skies  : 
The  equal  honours  of  each  martial  chief 
Their  tombs  set  forth.     This  record  is  more  brief — 
Comrades  they  were  in  virtue  to  the  end, 
And  each,  rare  glory  !  earned  the  name  of  friend. 


MARTIAL.  77 

Epigram.  II.  xi. 

Quodfronte  Selium  nubila  vides,  Rufe  — 
THE  DINER-OUT  DISAPPOINTED. 

BEHOLD,  on  Semis'  brow,  how  dark  the  shade ; 
How  late  he  roams  beneath  the  colonnade ; 
How  his  grim  face  betrays  some  secret  wound ; 
How  with  his  nose  he  almost  scrapes  the  ground. 
He  beats  his  breast,  he  rends  his  hair.     What  now  ? 
Has  Selius  lost  a  friend,  or  brother?     No  ! 
His  brace  of  sons  still  live,  long  be  their  life  ! 
Safe  are  his  slaves,  his  chattels,  and  his  wife  ; 
His  steward's,  his  bailiff's  books  are  right  —  what  doom 
So  dire  has  fallen  on  him  ?     He  dines  at  home  ! 

Epigram.  II.  lxviii. 

Quod  te  nomine  jam  tuo  saluto  — 
A    REVOLT. 

THINK  not  I  have  become  a  boor 
If  I  "  My  Lord  "  thee  now  no  more, 
My  haughty  friend.     I've  paid  my  fee  — 
All  I  was  worth  —  for  liberty. 
Who  wants  what  lords  to  servants  give 
A  lord  must  own,  a  servant  live. 
But,  my  good  Olus,  take  my  word, 
Who  needs  no  servant  wants  no  lord. 


78  BA  Y  LEA  VES. 

Epigram.  III.  xxi. 

Proscriptum  famulus  servavit  fronte  notatus  — 

[On  a  slave  who,  having  been  branded  by  a  cruel  master,  after- 
wards saved  that  master's  life  from  massacre  under  proscription.  A 
welcome  tribute  from  the  Roman  Poet  to  humanity.] 

WHEN,  scarred  with  cruel  brand,  the  slave 
Snatched  from  the  murderer's  hand 
His  proscript  lord,  not  life  he  gave 
His  tyrant,  but  the  brand. 

Epigram.  III.  xxxv. 

Artis  Phidiacce  toreuma  clarum  — 

Epigram.  III.  xli. 

Inserta  phialce  Mentoris  manu  ducta  — 

ON  TWO  WORKS  OF  ART. 

[Showing  the  extreme  value  which  the  Ancients  set  on  exact 
imitation.] 


T 
T 


HESE  fishes  Phidias  wrought :  with  life  by  him 
They  are  endowed ;  add  water  and  they  swim. 

HAT  lizard  on  the  goblet  makes  thee  start. 
Fear  not ;  it  lives  only  by  Mentor's  art. 


F 


MARTIAL.  79 

Epigram.  III.  lviii. 

Baiana  nostri  villa,  Basse,  Faustini  — 

[This  piece  gives  a  pleasant  picture  of  Roman  country  life,  and 
shows  that  there  was  something  left  under  the  Empire  better  than 
the  vast  estates  tilled  by  slave  gangs,  which  Pliny  calls  the  ruin  of 
Italy.] 

^AUSTINUS  is  a  man  of  taste  ; 

Yet  is  his  Baian  seat  no  waste 

Of  useless  myrtle,  barren  plane, 

Clipped  box,  like  many  a  grand  domain 

That  covers  miles  with  empty  state  : 

But  country  unsophisticate. 

In  every  corner  grain  is  crammed, 

Casks  fragrant  of  old  wine  are  jammed. 

Here,  at  the  turning  of  the  year, 

Vinedressers  house  the  vintage  sere. 

Grim  bulls  in  grassy  valleys  low 

And  the  calf  butts  with  hornless  brow. 

Poultry  of  every  clime  and  sort 

Ramble  in  dirt  about  the  court, 

The  screaming  geese,  flamingoes  red, 

Peacocks  with  jewelled  tail  outspread, 

Pied  partridges,  pheasants  that  come 

From  Colchian  strand,  dark  magic's  home, 

And  Afric's  birds  of  many  spots. 

The  cock  amidst  his  harem  struts 

While  on  the  tower  aloft  doves  coo 

And  pigeons  flap  and  turtles  woo. 


BAY  LEAVES. 

Pigs  to  the  good  wife's  apron  scurry, 

Lambs  to  their  milky  mothers  hurry. 

The  fire,  well-heaped,  burns  bright  and  high, 

Around  it  crowds  the  nursery. 

No  butler  here  from  lack  of  toil 

Grows  sick,  no  trainer  wastes  his  oil, 

Lounging  at  ease  ;  but  forth  they  fare 

The  fish  with  quivering  line  to  snare, 

The  crafty  springe  for  birds  to  set, 

Or  catch  the  deer  with  circling  net. 

Pleased  with  the  garden's  easy  work 

The  city  hands  take  spade  and  fork ; 

The  curly-headed  striplings  ask 

The  bailiff  for  a  merry  task 

Without  their  pedagogue's  command ; 

E'en  the  sleek  eunuch  bears  a  hand. 

Then  country  callers,  many  a  one, 

Troop  in,  and  empty-handed  none ; 

This  brings  a  honeycomb,  that  a  pail 

Of  milk  from  green  Sassinum's  dale ; 

Capons  or  dormice  plump  another, 

Or  kid,  reft  from  his  shaggy  mother. 

Basket  on  arm,  stout  lasses  come 

With  gifts  from  many  a  thrifty  home. 

Work  over,  each,  a  willing  guest, 

Is  bidden  to  no  niggard  feast, 

Where  all  may  revel  at  their  will, 

And  servants  eat,  like  guests,  their  fill. 

But  thou,  friend  Bassus,  close  to  town, 

On  trim  starvation  lookest  down, 


MARTIAL.  81 

Seest  laurels,  laurels  everywhere  ; 

No  need  the  thief  from  fruit  to  scare. 

Town  bread  thy  vinedresser  must  eat ; 

The  town  sends  greens,  eggs,  cheese,  and  meat. 

Such  country  is  —  my  friend  must  own  — 

Not  country,  but  town  out  of  town. 


Epigram.  IV.  vm. 

Prima  salut antes  atque  altera  continet  nor  a  — 
THE  OCCUPATION   OF  A  ROMAN   DAY. 

VISITS  consume  the  first,  the  second  hour ; 
When  comes  the  third,  hoarse  pleaders  show 
their  power ; 
At  four  to  business  Rome  herself  betakes ; 
At  six  she  goes  to  sleep,  by  seven  she  wakes ; 
By  nine  well  breathed  from  exercise  we  rest, 
And  in  the  banquet  hall  the  couch  is  pressed. 
Now,  when  thy  skill,  greatest  of  cooks,  has  spread 
The  ambrosial  feast,  let  Martial's  rhymes  be  read, 
With  mighty  hand  while  Caesar  holds  the  bowl, 
When  draughts  of  nectar  have  relaxed  his  soul. 
Now  trifles  pass.     My  giddy  Muse  would  fear 
Jove  to  approach  in  morning  mood  severe. 


82  BA  Y  LEA  FES. 

Epigram.  IV.  xm. 

Claudia,  Rufe,  meo  nubit  Peregrina  Pudenti  — 
ON  A  FRIEND'S  WEDDING. 

MY  Pudens  shall  his  Claudia  wed  this  day. 
Shed,  torch  of  Hymen,  shed  thy  brightest  ray  ! 
So  costly  nard  and  cinnamon  combine, 
So  blends  sweet  honey  with  the  luscious  wine. 
So  clasps  the  tender  vine  her  elm,  so  love 
The  lotus  leaves  the  stream,  myrtles  the  cove. 
Fair  Concord,  dwell  for  ever  by  that  bed ; 
Let  Venus  bless  the  pair  so  meetly  wed ; 
May  the  wife  love  with  love  that  grows  not  cold, 
And  never  to  her  husband's  eye  seerrr  old. 

Epigram.  V.  xx. 

Si  tecum  mihi,  care  Martialis  — 
THE  TRUE  BUSINESS   OF  LIFE. 

O   COULD-  both  thou  and  I,  my  friend, 
From  care  and  trouble  freed, 
Our  quiet  days  at  pleasure  spend 
And  taste  of  life  indeed, 


MARTIAL.  83 

We'd  bid  farewell  to  marble  halls, 

The  sad  abodes  of  state, 
To  law,  with  all  its  dismal  brawls, 

To  trappings  of  the  great ; 

We'd  seek  the  book,  the  cheerful  talk, 

At  noonday  in  the  shade, 
The  bath,  the  ride,  the  pleasant  walk 

In  the  cool  colonnade. 

Dead  to  our  better  selves  we  see 

The  golden  hours  take  flight, 
Still  scored  against  us  as  they  flee ; 

Then  haste  to  live  aright. 


Epigram.  V.  xlii. 

Callidus  effracta  nummos  fur  auferet  area — 
AN   EXHORTATION   TO   LIBERALITY. 

THE  crafty  thief  your  cash-box  may  invade  ; 
Your  father's  house  in  ashes  may  be  laid ; 
Your  steward  be  swindled  by  a  harlot's  guile ; 
Your  merchandise  become  the  ocean's  spoil. 
Your  debtor  may  a  bankrupt  prove  ;  your  field, 
The  sower's  hopes  belied,  no  harvest  yield ; 
What  thou  hast  given  to  friends,  and  that  alone, 
Defies  misfortune,  and  is  still  thy  own. 


84  BA  Y  LEA  VES. 

Epigram.  VIII.  xvm. 

Si  tua,  Cirini,  promas  epigrammata  vulgo  — 
LITERARY  CHIVALRY. 

GIVEN  to  the  world,  those  epigrams  of  thine, 
My  friend  Cirinius,  might  have  rivalled  mine ; 
But  thou  hast  such  regard  for  friendship  shown 
As  to  prefer  my  glory  to  thy  own. 
So,  Virgil,  though  he  might  with  Pindar's  strain 
Have  vied,  to  Horace  left  his  own  domain. 
To  Varius  so  he  left  the  Roman  stage, 
Himself  the  born  tragedian  of  the  age. 
Money  or  lands  to  give  is  nothing  new, 
They  who  make  presents  of  renown  are  few. 


Epigram.  VIII.  lxix. 

Miraris  veteres,  Vacerra,  solos  — 
THE  REVERSE  OF  THE  LAST. 

VACERRA  lauds  no  living  poet's  lays, 
But  for  departed  genius  keeps  his  praise. 
I,  alas,  live,  nor  deem  it  worth  my  while 
To  die,  that  I  may  win  Vacerra's  smile. 


MARTIAL.  85 

Epigram.  X.  xxiv. 

Natales  mihi  Martice  Calendce — 

ON   HIS   OWN   BIRTHDAY,  MARCH  i. 

[To  explain  lines  three  and  four,  it  should  be  said  that  girls 
usually  received  presents  while  men  sent  them  on  the  first  of  March, 
but  Martial,  the  day  being  his  birthday,  received  presents  from 
female  as  well  as  male  friends.] 

ABOVE  all  days  bright  is  my  natal  morn. 
Blest  I  who,  March,  upon  thy  Kalends  born, 
Receive  from  ladies  presents  many  a  one, 
While  others  get  them  from  the  men  alone. 
Fifty  and  seven  times  at  the  altar  now- 
Martial  has  duly  paid  his  birthday  vow. 
Grant,  if  it  be  your  pleasure,  powers  divine 
That  I  to  fifty-seven  may  add  twice  nine, 
And  thus,  when  life's  three  stages  I  have  past, 
Yet  sound  and  brisk  and  hearty  to  the  last 
To  Proserpine's  domain  may  wend  my  way. 
Of  Nestor's  age  I  ask  not  one  more  day. 

Epigram.  X.  xlvii. 

Vitam  qum  faciunt  beatiorem  — 
A  ROMAN   GENTLEMAN'S   IDEA  OF  HAPPINESS. 

WHAT  makes  a  happy  life^  dear  friend, 
If  thou  would'st  briefly  learn,  attend. 
An  income  left,  not  earned  by  toil ; 


86  BA  Y  LEA  V£S. 

Some  acres  of  a  kindly  soil ; 

The  pot  unfailing  on  the  fire ; 

No  lawsuits ;  seldom  town  attire  ; 

Health ;  strength  with  grace  ;  a  peaceful  mind ; 

Shrewdness  with  honesty  combined ; 

Plain  living ;  equal  friends  and  free ; 

Evenings  of  temperate  gaiety ; 

A  wife  discreet,  yet  blithe  and  bright ; 

Sound  slumber,  that  lends  wings  to  night. 

With  all  thy  heart  embrace  thy  lot, 

Wish  not  for  death  and  fear  it  not. 


Epigram.  X.  l. 

Frangat  Idumceas  tristris  Victoria  palmas — 

ON  THE  UNTIMELY  DEATH   OF  A  FAMOUS 
CHARIOTEER. 

LET  Victory,  sorrowing,  cast  her  palm  away, 
Let  Favour  beat  her  breast  and  wail  the  day, 
Let  Honour  don  the  mourner's  dark  attire, 
And  Glory  fling  her  wreath  upon  the  pyre. 
Snatched  in  his  prime,  Scorpus,  sad  thought !  must  go 
To  yoke  night's  horses  in  the  realm  below. 
Swift  flew  the  chariot,  soon  the  goal  was  won ; 
Another  race  thou  hast, too  quickly  run. 


MARTIAL,  87 

Epigram.  XII.  xxxiv. 

Triginta  mihi  quatuorque  messes  — 
VICISSITUDES   OF  FRIENDSHIP. 

MY  friend,  since  thou  and  I  first  met, 
This  is  the  thirty-fourth  December ; 
Some  things  there  are  we'd  fain  forget, 
More  that  'tis  pleasant  to  remember. 

Let  for  each  pain  a  black  ball  stand, 
For  every  pleasure  past  a  white  one, 

And  thou  wilt  find,  when  all  are  scanned, 
The  major  part  will  be  the  bright  one. 

He  who  would  heartache  never  know, 
He  who  unruffled  calmness  treasures, 

Must  friendship's  chequered  bliss  forego  ; 
Who  has  no  pain  has  fewer  pleasures. 


CLAUDIAN. 
In  Rufinum,  I.  1-2 1. 

Scepe  mihi  dublam  traxit  sententia  mentem  — 

[The  successful  career  of  the  infamous  favourite  Rufinus  had 
shaken  Claudian's  faith  in  Providence.  By  the  fall  of  Rufinus  the 
poet's  faith  is  restored.] 

OFTTIMES  had  doubt  distraught  my  mind. 
Did  Heaven  look  down  on  human  kind, 
Or  was  the  Guiding  Power  a  dream, 
And  chance  o'er  men's  affairs  supreme  ? 
When  I  surveyed  great  Nature's  law, 
The  ordered  tides  and  seasons  saw, 
Day  following  night,  night  following  day, 
All  seemed  to  own  an  Author's  sway, 
Whose  flat  ruled  the  starry  choir, 
Who  robed  the  glorious  sun  with  fire, 
Bade  the  moon  shine  with  borrowed  light 
And  earth  yield  all  her  fruits  aright, 
Poised  the  round  world  and  taught  the  wave 
Within  its  bounding  shore  to  rave. 
But  when  I  turned  to  man's  estate 
And  saw  how  dark  the  ways  of  fate, 


CLA  UDIAN.  89 

Saw  vice  victorious  mounting  high, 

And  suffering  worth  neglected  lie, 

Doubt  triumphed  and  my  faith  grew  cold. 

Sadly  I  turned  to  those  who  hold 

That  all  is  born  of  atoms  blind, 

Whirled  through  the  void,  without  a  mind, 

And  that  the  gods,  if  gods  there  be, 

Are  careless  of  humanity. 

But  now  my  soul  her  faith  regains, 

Rufinus  falls,  Heaven's  justice  reigns  : 

The  bad  are  raised  only  to  show 

Heaven's  justice  in  their  overthrow. 


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